Ascendancy
by sarbearofmidgard
Summary: Longing, Rusted, Seventeen.. While Bucky is in cryo-freeze, Steve finds a way to rid Bucky's mind of those words. All outside control over Bucky's mind is then abolished. But they still have a hold over his emotions. That is where Ella Walin, the top PTSD Psychiatrist in the world, comes in. True healing, though, can only come through love and defeating your worst fears.
1. Chapter 1

Ascendancy

Chapter 1

 _Breath…. I need air… Can't breath._ Basically my thoughts everytime I go for a run. I am no born runner. You know how some people go long distances and maybe even- Odin forbid- like it? Those people are absolute lunatics.

And proof that I am a terrible runner is the fact that this bright morning in Sudan, I can not breath, like at all. Well, I should say I am huffing and puffing, grasping for just a bit of air to stay inside and rejuvenate me, but it just doesn't happen.

Slowing down, I bring my once dry shirt up to wipe my horrifyingly sweaty face, but to no avail, for my shirt is not dry _anywhere._ I guess that is to be expected when you go running in the desert.

Sudan isn't that bad though. I mean, it is hot, when it rains, it rains, and there is so small amount of food it's insane, but the people, when they aren't worried about the rebels or military plagiarizing them after the civil war, are nice.

 _I think I'll just walk back to camp._ Having decided, I walk the half mile toward my home sweet home- a UN refugee camp. It should be called a small city because of it's size. Looking at it from a distance makes it seem even bigger, for some strange reason.

Kids call at me, yelling "Sweaty Ella!" at me in English, as I walk down the dry road through the camp to my shelter (most speak a mixture of English and Nuer, and sweaty has become a common word around here ever since I arrived). Even though I could take offense at this, it is so rare to see the children laughing, that I can't help but join in; the laughing phenomenon.

On either side of the skinny path is tents and huts made of all kinds of materials: From tarps to sticks, whatever can be used, will be. Women sit in the openings, talking in their garbled speech, while some are watching their kids, getting water, making food, and ect. Typical day in a refugee camp.

I finally arrive at my tent- a nice canvas one, with an opening flap. When I came to this camp from my home (Greentown, SC), I was told to bring a tent, as the materials to make me one would be near impossible to find. So mine ended up being one of the nicest in the entire city-camp. It sort of has to be, considering I have other people come meet me in here for their sessions.

When I enter my beautiful tent, I walk to the mat on the ground, aka my bed, where my chest of close is by. I slip off my wet shirt for a dry, dark purple one, then rest on my mat for a minute. Jerking awake from the sound of someone entering, I cheer, "Mumbada! How are you today?", when a dark young boy enters.

And then the session begins. We talk quietly about his days as a child soldier. There is no pressing, for it is a horrible matter, but as a psychologist, it's a part of my job; hearing and helping to heal the horrible.

I was brought here to help the people, especially the few child soldiers that got transferred back to their families who are living here at the camp. A non-profit charity helps fund my mission work here in Sudan; sometimes I have direct sponsors.

It has certainly been an adventure. Straight out of college (NYU) I had worked at a high-end psychiatrica place, but the most difficult thing to deal with there was normally depression, which though not a good thing and extremely difficult, it is nowhere near as terrible as the horrors of being a child soldier. PTSD has now become my speciality.

Finally, when I saved up a good amount of money, I began my dream of serving overseas. And while it hasn't been a joy ride, the feeling of truly helping people is definitely worth the struggles. Results are slow when dealing with PTSD or extreme depression, but I have been seeing improvements in my patients after the nine months of being here; which seems like a long time after I think about it.

After meeting with five more patients, I head over to a family's tent to share dinner with them. The family's father was a patient of mine; he tried suicide. Going all the way to the desert, with no food or water, he wandered far from camp; desperate because of his children's' and wife's despairing conditions. One of his kids saw him leave and a three day search commenced, and ended with finally finding him dehydrated in the blaring Sudanese heat. After the father was brought back to health, he became mine to take care of. And grueling months of sessions finally lead to a breakthrough when he saw his kids laughing and playing; it's not that it was entirely unusual for them to be happy, but something inside him untwisted and a new man broke through.

So thus, I joined them often for dinner, gratefulness on everyone's faces each time I came near. Tonight we supped on boiled water with a bit of dried meat and beans in it; a poor excuse for soup. But tomorrow always holds the opportunity for a supplies truck to come in, and with that, possible fresh fruits and vegetables.

As I sit on my mat, eating by these brown beauties, surprisingly enjoying and gobbling down my stew, fulfillness abounds in my heart. If I can help them, these people in possibly the worst situation you could imagine, who can't I help?

/

The next morning is almost identical to yesterday: a breathless run, a catnap, then my patients. When all is suddenly interrupted.

Jostling and banging its passengers, a jeep and truck plow into camp, and with it come hundreds of rejoicing cheers. "Food! Food!" Is screeched from every far corner of this camp-city and it's almost deafening. The UN volunteers hop down from their cars and immediately open the back of their large truck with a bang. A few are put on crowd control, pushing back the Sudanese from the multitude of supplies and food. Hands, arms, and even feet, can be seen squirming through the barricade of volunteers.

Rushing over, I shout, "Back up everybody! Form a line to the hole!" The hole is what we call our supplies storage; a large, slanting hole in the ground that is covered with a tarp and wood. A few listen to me, and begin forming a rudimentary line to the hole, but most are still fighting towards their much wanted and needed supplies.

I stand next to Mumbada, ready to help with anything I can, when a red haired women wearing expensive sunglasses and a brown leather jacket, roughly takes my arm and pulls me aside. "Where's your tent? We need to talk." Well, that's a little insulting. All she had to do was ask politely.

"Whats this about?" I question, yanking my forearm out of her clutches to push a strand of brown hair out of my face. "Are you with International Psychiatric Aide?" Seeing her raised eyebrows beyond her large sunglasses, I answer my own inquiry, "I guess not. Follow me."

Glancing around, the women purposefully follows me, like a spy on a mission. Flipping open my flap, I gesture to my grand living-room/dining-room/ bedroom/kitchen. "Nice place." She says sarcastically. "The best money can buy." Is my reply.

I plop down on a mat, and gesture for her to join me, but the women declines. Pulling off her sunglasses and revealing an austere face, she says. "Let's get down to business." Which automatically brings to mind Mulan, but I resist the urge to sing, saying rather, "What business?"

"You are supposedly one of the best PTSD Psychiatrists in the world, am I correct?"

"Well, I don't know if I'd say that."

"Your scoring would say otherwise, Mrs. Walin."

This isn't making any sense. "What test? And who exactly are you?"

"I'm Natalie Roman, and I work for the Wakandan government. We want you to come work for us. And by test scores," Natalie sits down on the sandy ground across from me. "I mean the ones we assigned you. Our researchers, the top in the world, searched the globe for someone with your capabilities. They ranked the top Psychologist in the world, and when it comes to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, you are the top of your class."

This, of course, shocks me. I know I'm pretty good, I was always the top of my class, and my experience on the field may be near invaluable if I head back to the states. But the best out there? That just doesn't seem right.

"I highly doubt that."

Natalie shifts back on her heels, and says, "You better believe it. The Wakandan government is willing to pay you a large sum of money for your help. And with just one patient."

This must be one special patient. "And do you have the patient file?"

"I'm sorry but that's classified information." A patient I'm not even allowed to know? Natalie continued. "If you accept, than we would immediately wish you to come to Wakanda. And if this is an offer that you wish to accept, come find my tent in the morning and we will head out promptly."

But what about my current patients? It's hard enough to see some of these emotionally damaged Sudanese leave our sessions after the first one. They need so much help, but they are too proud to take it. I don't want to leave them for long.

"How long would I be there?"

"As long as it takes."

"And you still can't tell me anything about this mysterious patient."

Natalie raises her eyebrows and the corners of her lips curl up slightly. "All I can say is that they will be the most challenging case you've ever had the... pleasure of working with."

"Oh." I reply plainly.

Patiently waiting for my response, Natalie stands up and says quietly, "I'll give you some time to think." And I watch her red hair as she walks across the sandy plain to the UN workers.

This is insane. Wakanda is the richest city in Africa and the thought that they want me, and for one patient…. It must be an insanely special person. The offer is extremely intriguing but I don't just want to leave everything I have here. And my patients.

I flop on my back, and a slightly exasperated sigh escapes my chap lips. Running my hand though my short brown locks, the grainy sand in my hair tickles my fingers. How am I even supposed to decide? If this person is truly as damaged as they say, this could be great practice (and look great on my resume) but who knows how long I would be in Wakanda helping this man (or woman)? But with the money they might pay me, I could stay on the field for a long time…

Breaking away from my racing thoughts, I feel like I should go help unload but I'm sure they have enough help, considering how happy people were to see the new shipment of supplies. The campers would be lining up to help. So I just stay inside my tent, away from the camp and it's inhabitants.

Night falls, the suns last yellow rays shine through the canvas of my tent and all I do is lay there, wracking my brain to decide. It's not that I'm bad at decisions, but there are pros and cons to this situation that I just can't wrap my mind entirely around.

A kid walks in as I'm in that state between sleep and awareness, and I jerk awake, embarrassedly wiping the drool from the side of my mouth. " _Male_ , Ella. The workers brought _sampa!_ And I brought soup we cook." The adorable little boy said in his stilted African-English. He handed me a hot styrofoam bowl full of steaming vegetable soup. "Thank you." I say, taking the bowl.

As if the world depends on it, I wolf down the canned soup. That's when it hits me. If I can get that money then maybe that little boy will be this happy and full all the time. And it's just possible if I do a good job for the Wakandan government, they will be willing to hear me make a case for the Sudanese people. More food, more… everything.

I need to do this. The simple truth is, it shouldn't take long to help this patient. If he (or she) is to be my one and only, then all my attention will be on them.

So the next morning I meet Natalie at her tent, and she is already awake, her whole self surprisingly clean and put together. "I'm going." I tell her directly. She nods her head, as if expecting that answer. "Let's go."

"Uh, how?" Natalie just starts walking, past all the tents and shacks, of which she had stayed in one last night, her black combat boots grounding the sandy terrain. _OK, then._ A woman of few words, I suppose.

We head towards the UN vehicles, which would be here for a few days until they finish giving some vaccines. Natalie goes to the back of the van, and unlatches the hatch, lifting it by the strap. And that is when I see the motorcycle.

Natalie jumps up, and pulls down the ramp. Spinning her keys on a finger, she saunters up and revves up the cycle. Slowly she Rolls down the ramp, then shouts over the engine, "Hop on!"

I swing my leg onto the hot seat, and with a roar of the engine, we head off toward the sun. Toward Wakanda. The land of my mysterious patient.

/


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It's about dark when we reach Ethiopia. All day the wind has been blowing in my ears and when Natalie yells over the noise of the cycle and air, "Almost there!", I can barely hear her. Seeing a city up ahead is a huge relief, because my butt is basically numb.

The sand blowing behind us, we arrive in town and Natalie drives us directly to a clay baked hotel. You'd think I would be in some kind of a culture shock, after living in a refugee camp for so long, at seeing a town, but this small village looks pretty impoverished; maybe not a giant step up from a refugee camp.

I stiffly hop off the bike, loosen my legs and open the wooden door for my red hair companion. A dark man at the desk greets us cheerfully and while Natalie checks in, I go and lay down on the colorful couch, exhausted by this day's journey.

I apparently dozed off, for Natalie has to shake me to wake up. "Hey, we're in room #4."

"Oh, ok. Sorry." I say, looking around me dazedly. I drag myself off of the couch and we head towards our room. And I get a good look at the hotel on the way. It is fairly small; probably about ten rooms in all. African nicknacks sit in small crevices in the walls and everything is red and earthy. And lining the floors and hanging on the windows are bold colored fabrics, giving the space a cheerful vibes.

The room door is similar to the front one, made of wooden sticks held together by rope in a decorative pattern. Thankfully there are two beds, and while Natalie goes and takes a shower, I flop on the one closest to the window. Listening to the sweet sound of water hitting tile, I drift away, reminded of rain. It's been so long since I've heard that sound…

It's like I've been knocked out, my sleep is so deep. But the sun has just barely cracked over the horizon when Natalie's watch alarm bleeps out the most obnoxious sound, disrupting my bliss. _Butt sore. Butt sore._ Is all I can think as I drag my aching body out of bed.

As ever, Natalie is up and spry. Even before the alarm clock had rung, she must have been down to the hotel kitchen, for Natalie sits calmly eating some kind of special rice. "Good morning." She says, looking comfortable in a pair of skinny jeans, light blue shirt, and leather jacket.

"Good morning." I reply easily. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Ok, but we have to leave early this morning to make it to the Ethiopian airport in time for our flight."

"Right." Thank goodness for planes and seats that don't numb your butt.

I jam my gritty clothes into a plastic bag, and grab a new outfit from my backpack, sitting my bag back onto the toilet. All my other stuff has been left at the camp; to be shipped by the UN volunteers when they arrive back at their headquarters.

Toiletries are already left in the shower from Natalie's shower last night, and so I just turn the water on and hop in. I don't even care that the water is freezing; it's been so long since I've had a real shower. Even just standing, the water wetting my hair and running down my dusty body, is bliss.

Only when Natalie yells, "Five minutes," Do I realize where I am and what I'm doing. I go through the motions quickly, then furiously rub myself dry, nearly taking my skin off in the process. Then I slip on a pair of sweatpants and a hot pink shirt, and stumble out the door, ready to cram some food into my mouth.

"Where's the food?" I practically screech, seeing the cleared table.

Natalie just calmly looks up, eyebrows raised, from where she is packing her backpack full of hotel water bottles, and says, "We need to go."

"So I can't even eat?"

"Guess not." She replies. I huff. _Fine then. I'll get something at the airport._

Through all of this, I nearly forget why I am here. To help someone and by helping them, providing for others too. It's hard to always keep that in mind. You can get so distracted by things, that the real reason for doing it slips away. This patient needs my help and so do the Sudanese. I have to keep my calm.

So I slow my pace, and me and Nat check out and then hop back on the horrid motorcycle. And I am calm, ready to help whoever needs it most.

/

To see a real city is almost beyond words. No sandy buildings in sight, no tarps, and real toilets; it makes me want to cry. We arrive two hours later into the high tech capital of Ethiopia, Addis Ababa.

The Ethiopian airport is extremely busy this morning, equalling more security. Natalie seems slightly on edge, though I can't tell why; she is a government agent after all.

After we make it through security, we wait for our plane to board. And since we got done so early (we didn't have to check in our bags, since all we have are our carry on packs), I head out to find some food. Because I am absolutely starving and food is amazing.

I am literally in heaven, for it has been _so_ long since I have had much to eat at all, let alone sinfully delicious fast food. The cafeteria is crowded with people from all ethnic backgrounds, the multiple of skintones standing out against the pristine white of the typical airport cafeteria.

Natalie has given me twenty dollars and the decision on what to have for my first fake/real food is killing me. _Maybe eeny-meenie-minie-mo?_ But that's when I notice the Chick-fil-a and my decision is made for me. I get the largest order of nuggets, fries, and lemonade I can possibly eat, then go sit at a small table behind a indoor tree.

Trying to take this time to savor every bite, I begin slowly, nibbling on the incredible nugget that makes me proud to call myself American. But soon I am gobbling up everything with such ferocity that indegestion seems inevitable.

As I eat, watching the crowds, everything seems so strange and different. Having been away from civilized society for so long makes me feel like I have dissociation. Everything seems separate from me, like I am an omnipresent god staring down at everyone from afar. It's not the noise, it's the fact that everyone is so unreal, so clean, so…. _Normal._

Turns out that while all this deep feeling and dissociation was occurring, I had eaten the last fry, and now my fingers are groping inside the salty, plastic bag. I am incredibly full, but you know the saying "food goes to the stomach, but dessert goes to the heart"? Well, I think I can squeeze a donut in there.

So I go take my tray to a trash can, then head to the long line for the Dunkin Donuts. I'd like to say, for the record, that I do truly believe donuts are a gift from God. And with that in mind, I pick out two deliciously unhealthy ones: an oreo-sprinkled one and plain chocolate iced one for Natalie. How can she not be nice to me now?

I take my time fletcherizing, my walking mimicking my slow chewing. When I finally make it back to Natalie, I see I almost missed our flight. The announcement must have aired as I was in edible bliss.

"Hey, what took you so long?" Natalie says, standing from her hard, blue, airport chair. She has a phone to her ear, and says quietly into it, looking at the ground, "Yes, we will be there soon, just… Yes Steve, ok yeah, bye." Natalie's blue-green eyes meet mine and in her low, almost seductive voice, says, "Sorry, but the plane is boarding."

"No, I apologize. I got caught up in the moment. But to make amends, here is a donut." I hold up the chocolate glazed, and Natalie's eyes light up and she says, "Thanks."

Before we board the plane, she crams it in her mouth, then wipes her lips hastily with the napkin. As we enter , I see the plane is relatively full, but Natalie bought us first class seats. This will be the first time I've ever sat in first class.

A flight attendant's voice sounds over the speaker, "Welcome to Ethiopian air. We hope you have an enjoyable flight and as we take off, please buckle your seatbelt and turn off any electronic devices. If you don't know how, watch as your attendant shows how to strap yourself in. And in case of emergency, there are exits in the back and front of the plane. Thank you for flying with us and enjoy your adventure."

Natalie straps herself in without a glance at the flight attendant, like she has gone on millions of planes before, and cozies up to her seat. We take off, and while she closes her eyes for the three hour flight, I look out the window, mesmerized by the beautiful site beneath me. Different color landscapes appear in blocks; trees, then sand, then a river. Lucky I got the window seat.

I decided to take this time and really enjoy myself. You know, when most people go on planes they can't wait to get off it, but this is like a spa to me. Free food whenever I want, movies that I haven't seen in ages, air conditioning, and an ultra comfortable seat.

The airplane ride flys by swiftly and all too soon. We land, and I am almost loathe to leave the plane.

Wakanda is a relatively small country and so is its airport; who can come into Wakanda is very controlled. But because of this, we breeze through baggage claim. Then head outside into the blazing heat where a black, governmental SUV, sits waiting for us.

Everything seems so official, so when Natalie tells me to tie a blindfold around my eyes, I'm rather taken aback.

"Why on earth would I need to do that?" Natalie looks at the driver, a brown man with a pointy chin. They exchange glances and Natalie explains, "Because the location we are going is classified. And, I suppose I should tell you, we're not with the government. Well, not exactly. Were you there when the Chitauri attacked New York?"

I nod, not fully understanding what's going on here.

"Well," Natalie continues, "I was part of the group that fought them off. I'm Natasha Romanoff, otherwise known as Black Widow, and I'm with, or was with, The Avengers. And my friend Steve, or Captain America, he asked me to recruit you to help his friend."

My head is spinning. This is a trap. It has to be; some kind of kidnapping and their trying to blame it on the Avengers. What would they be doing in Wakanda anyway?

"What would the Avengers be doing in Wakanda? Their headquarters were in New York last I heard."

"That was the case. But there was a…. splitting up. I won't get into details, but the New Avengers are now considered vigilantes, and although it might be considered illegal, T'Challa, king of Wakanda, is giving them a secret base to work out of."

So now I'm aiding fugitives but also working under the king's command? Odin help us all.

"And the blindfold is so I don't know the location?"

Natasha's lips curl up slightly and she replies, "That's correct."

 _What to do, what to do._ "If I wanted to back out…"

"Not possible, unfortunately. You don't have a choice now. I'm sorry Ella, I wish I could have told you but they desperately need your help." She reaches over, and, with an apologetic look, ties the blindfold around my eyes.

I don't struggle or even say anything else. Why should I? There is nothing I can do and I'm sitting next to a trained assassin. I was utterly and completely taken advantage of. And of course I'll be doing the same job, but now there is probably no chance of me gaining aid for the Sudanese, considering it would expose king T'challa to his advisors.

Thus, I sit silent. It takes what seems to be two hours, but it's hard to tell considering I can't see the clock. _These people must have bladders of steel,_ I think. Which is a strange thought considering I've just been kidnapped. We haven't stopped once this entire time, and I desperately have to go pee. But I refuse to speak, so I'm forced to hold it just for my pride.

Finally, just when I'm about to burst, we arrive at… somewhere. I can hear the car door slam and voices outside speaking, snippets of conversation reach my ears, "Steve.. Can't stay… have to figure things..'' It all sounds like Natasha. And then someone opens the door. They take my hand and guide me inside the building. I can tell because my feet are no longer walking on sand, but rather floor.

When the blindfold is removed, it takes my eyes a moment to adjust, but there is not much of a sight to adjust to. The room I'm standing in is basically a light blue square with the addition of a table and two chairs in the middle. There are no windows; nothing but a locked door behind me. "Hey!" I yell, banging my fist on the door. "I've gotta go pee!"

The door suddenly opens and I'm knocked back when a tall blond enters. _Hot_ , is the first word that comes to mind. His serious face worries me slightly, though, and the man's humongous arms that look like they could snap my neck with the ease of opening a jar, also worry me a little too.

"Please. Sit." The hot man says.

Unashamed I reply. "Your friends out there wouldn't let me use the bathroom, so no. I need to pee before I speak to anyone." I use my demanding voice. When he stands, I cower slightly but he just says, "Follow me then." And knocks on the door, which is opened by the same man who drove the car earlier. The chocolate man nods his chin at me, but I ignore him, rather following the hunk down the hall.

But as I try to leave the room, he holds out an arm and says in a playful tone, "Whoa there. Don't you want your blindfold?" As he chuckles, I huff, and then let him guide me down the hall with the black tie around my eyes once more. Sunlight comes through the black blinder and I let the warmth caress and sooth me, and help get my mind off of how much I _really_ have to go.

A door is opened soundlessly and I'm lightly shoved in. "My eyes are not all-seeing you know!" I yell at the closed door. Huh, like I could tell their location by the trees outside. But I don't say anything more and instead relieve myself on the toilet.

The bathroom is practically the same as the previous room, except this one has a toilet and a small window high up. As I'm about to climb onto the potty to get a peek out the glass, a pound on the door stops me in my tracks. "All done in there?" The bulging biceps one I assume is Steve, aka, Captain America, asks.

"Yes." I reply. And with that, I am led back down the hall and taken to the room. My stomach has been a mess ever since I left the camp, but now that I am some kind of captive, I am even more on edge. I take my seat nervously, and "Probably Steve" sits down across from me. He leans back in his chair and eyes me suspiciously.

"I hope you understand, we have to take precautions. The last psychologist I encountered turned out to be a revenge-bent Sokovian. I don't plan on making that mistake again." I stay quiet.

"Natasha said she explained our current situation with you, so I won't talk about that, except to say this: This location _must,"_ He leans forward slightly for emphasis, "remain a secret and if you do anything to jeopardize that at all, you will be living in this room for possibly the rest of your life." My eyes widen but I wasn't going to go off telling my many (non) friend about this place, so I don't really have anything to worry about.

"What about when I have finished working with the patient? I'll still know the location." This could be problematic. And what about my family? I have to see them again.

"You let us worry about that. But, rest assured, you will get to return home, or wherever you choose, I just do not have the answer to that question right now.

"Now," Probably Steve continues, "we are going to use a lie-detector to determine if you are a safety risk or lier. Bring it in!" He yells. As the driver man brings in a large computer on a movable stand, he says to me, "I'm Steve, by the way."

I raise my eyebrows. "Hi. I'm Ella." The temptation to shake his hand is overwhelming, even under the circumstances, because, my word, it's Captain America. But I try to act slightly annoyed, rather than starstruck.

The chocolate man is typing something on the computer and looks at me, grinning. "I'm Sam."

"Nice to meet you. I guess." Steve and Sam exchange looks. They attach a finger clamp and small patches connected to wires, all which feed into the lie detector.

Steve grabs a file that sat on the moveable tray, and sets it on the table, tapping the papers into alignment. Business like, he opens the file to reveal words typed with spaces between them for my answers.

Folding his hands on the table, Steve begins, "First we need to establish a baseline. So I'm going to start by asking you some simple questions," He clears his throat. "What is your full name?"

"Ella Anne Walin." I reply simply. My stomach is soothed at the calmness of the process. It's actually very cool. I mean, you see these kind of things on TV shows like Lie to Me and other crime dramas, but I never thought it would be done to me.

Steve writes my answer under the first line, and looks up at Sam, who says, "That's the truth." Continuing, Steve asks, "Where are you from?"

"Greenville, South Carolina." I had lived in Greenville my entire life. To be honest, that was one of the main reasons I went to college in New York. I wanted to be free. All my life I had done the same thing; went to school, came home, did homework, and watch TV. Never deviating.

I only had a best friend when I was a child and she moved away, leaving me on my own. It didn't help that I'm pretty anti-social; I would rather read than go to a party any day. But I have this undeniable need for people. So that's what made New York so appealing.

It was fast paced and exciting; people were everywhere and I was bound to find someone who I could relate to. But it didn't really happen. I made a few friends but it was the same as always; we just didn't click enough to have that bestfriend bond. So I have remained to this day, with the exception of my dear older sister, my own best friend.

The hard chair is getting uncomfortable, and I've been sitting so long my whole body aches to stand up. But all these wires hold me down, like a puppet tied down by their strings.

Sam nods at Steve's questioning glance, confirming that my answer is the truth, and then the hard inquiry begins.

"Have you ever heard of or worked for an organization by the name of Hydra?" Cap's eyes bore holes into mine and I shrink back in my chair ever so slightly.

Of course I haven't worked for Hydra, but I have heard of them, practically the whole world has. What really has me worried is the fact that my grandfather used to work for Hydra. Surely they wouldn't kill me over that though. Right?

"I have never worked for them, but I have heard of them."

"Uh, Steve," Sam says in a worried tone. "What is it?" He asks. And, getting up from his chair quickly and with a screech, Steve stands by Sam and they both stare intensely at the screen. Sam lightly traces his finger on the screen and he and Steve turn to look at me, anger evident on every crevice of their face.

"That's not exactly true, is it?"

"Yes, it is." I reply. My voice spikes slightly.

"Ha, no it isn't." Sam points excitedly at the screen. "Whenever you lie, your pulse speeds, and just now it showed on the screen that it spiked. Now, you didn't go beyond the liying line, the one that indicates deceit, but you aren't tellin us the whole truth, are you?"

I cross my arms. This seems unfair; I am the one who agreed to help them and they think they have some kind of right to question me like a criminal? This really is like Law and Order.

"Well, my grandfather worked for Hydra. But I never would. Can we move on please?"

Steve sighs and loudly plops onto his chair. "Ok, so you haven't worked for Hydra. Have you committed any felonies?"

"Besides getting two parking tickets, no." And even getting those two made me feel terribly guilty.

"In any way, shape, or form, do you want to harm any of the New Avengers?"

"Nope." I reply.

Steve scribbles a few more things on his paper, stands up to look at the screen once more with Sam, then says, looking directly at me, "You passed."

"Yay!" I say with fake excitement. Even though, on the inside, I am kind of excited. This could be the adventure I have been waiting for my whole life. Spending seven years in NY was certainly exciting but it is nothing compared to living with the Avengers for a few months.

Another file is thrown in front of me, this one with the picture of a soldier on the front. The man looks devilishly handsome with a sly grin on his face, his hat crooked to one side, and a strong square jaw.

"This is your patient." Steve explains. Yes, he's good looking; that's always exciting.

I hold the file close to my face to get a better look at the little picture square then carefully flip it open. All humor inside my drains out.

Inside is horror. The man, James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes it says, went from the picture of health to masked, broken, brainwashed assassin. As much information as they could find is listed: the killing of Tony Stark's parents, drugs, weapons, and machines being collected, and more random accounts of anti-Hydra being killed or kidnapped by this man- the Winter Soldier.

It says that this person was and now is in cryo-freeze. I'm speechless. All his memories were washed out and what is in this is mostly all he could remember before going back into cryo- his own choice, it says.

Now I see why they asked me if I worked for Hydra. I mean, I understood before, but considering this was all done to Mr. Barnes for Hydra's benefit, it makes all the anger leave my body in a fit of pity.

My words come out slow, as I try to piece together my thoughts and many questions; I'll have to study this file more later. "This is… this is the person you want me to help?" Disbelief spills out of my voice.

"Yes. It's my friend Bucky. I guess you can see he was brainwashed by being read these words," He taps the page with the picture of a notebook with a red star on it. "Longing, Rusted, Seventeen, Daybreak, Furnace, Nine, Benign, Homecoming, One, Freight Car. When a man named Zemo tried to turn us against one another, he read these words out loud to Bucky and it turned him back into a Hydra-trained, cold blooded killer." Steve looks down at the ground, most likely flooded with grief.

Sam breaks in when Steve tries to speak again and says, "We have found a solution, though. With some of king kitties technology," Steve coughs loudly. With an miffed look, Sam continues, "With King _T'challa_ 's technology, there's a way to completely rid the soldier of these trigger words. We're taken him out of cryo in two days, and after we do the procedure we need you-"

Captain Rogers interrupts him, saying, "We need you to help him move past what Hydra did to him. Do you think you can do it?"

I try to take it all in. Nowhere have I seen anything this bad. The same procedures apply: Cognitive Processing Therapy or Prolonged Exposure Therapy. But it could takes months, and even then, success is still a low percentage.

I thought I had seen the worst of it when I tried to help child soldiers. But a brainwashed soldier? It's unprecedented.

"It's possible, I suppose. I think I can help him a little, but full recovery is not near assured."

Solemn looks abound in the room, and I run my hand through me brown hair, pushing my bangs back.

"But I'm willing to try," I say. They and I need to belief this is possible. For Mr. Barnes sake. So I force a large grin and say, "Let's help the Winter Soldier."

/


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

A psychotic laugh escapes my lips. It tickled and hurt at the same time. The doctor then tests the reflexes on my other leg. And with the tap of a rubber hammer, my leg kicks with mechanical precision into the air.

All day I've been stuck, poked, and examined from every possible angle. The Avengers are much more strict than I thought. I mean, plenty of diseases and sickness go around in a refugee camp, so it makes sense, but I'm up to date on all my shots.

Immediately after my interrogation, I was escorted down the hall, this time without a blindfold. There are two medical rooms chock full of supplies and also two doctors. And boy, are they thorough. I think I've been checked for every disease known to man.

And like every time I go for a checkup, I am thoroughly exhausted by the end of it. So when I am officially declared in perfect health, Sam comes to pick me up, and I say pick me up, I mean literally. I am so tired I pass out on the mini hospital coach, and when I wake I feel warm arms around my back and legs; he is carrying me bridal style.

"Oh, so you're awake now, Ms. Shrink?" He chuckles. I almost get out of his arms, but if he's carrying me, why in the world would I walk? "Very funny, Mr. Bird. You aren't going to put me down, are you?"

Sam's large, slight gap tooth smile, melts away any anger left inside me at the way I've been lied to. How can someone so nice mean any harm? "It would be my honor. To bad I don't have my wings, though. I could fly you across the compound. That'd be hot, wouldn't it. You like birds?"

"Oh, yeah. Especially the small ones." I tease.

Sam sighs in fake exasperation and jokes, "Dang girl. It's always the beautiful ones that give you a hard time."

We both laugh and then all goes quiet. I listen to his feet tap the floor. The hallway is white, although the setting sun tints the hall pink. Large windows look over a lush jungle and on the other side are multiple rooms; some full of scientific equipment and a few offices.

Sam coughs conspicuously, and says "I'm sorry for the way you had to be brought in here. But none of us wanted to risk going back to the underwater government jail."

"It's fine. I understand the precautions." Although it was slightly insulting, seeing what Mr. Barnes has been through, I would've done the same.

Again, neither of us speaks. There is so much unspoken tension because of why I am here; it's hard to chat over helping a ninety year old brainwashed assassin

Sam turns a corner and carries me down a different hall, where I think the bedrooms are located. Through a slightly cracked door, I see a long haired girl around my age who looks to be rewatching some old news footage of a building exploding. Sam notices me watching her and comments, "That's Wanda. She's been watching that old footage ever since we got here. Can't seem to move past what happened."

"What exactly did happen?" I question. Then reality hits. She must have blew up the building. Red tendrils had been swirling through the building before it blew. Having been away from televisions for so long, I haven't heard much news, except the few times the UN volunteers came. "Never mind." I say quietly.

"Yeah. It's rough. But hey, we've got a top notch therapist on our hands. Maybe you could talk to her?"

I reply, "Sure." He's right when he says they now have a therapist on their hands, but it's such a different realm when you're helping people with supernatural powers. It seems beyond my expertise, but how can I ignore such a pained human being?

We arrive in a medium size room with two wide windows overlooking the jungle which must surround the whole compound. Everything is refreshingly simple, like the whole place. A gray carpet covers the floor and the only furniture in the room is a bed with all a white comforter and sheets, desk, and dresser with a fancy TV on top.

"Oh no. This is not fair. Everyone gets a TV in their room except me! It's ridiculous." I burst out laughing and Sam, despite his frustrations, has to suppress a grin.

"Well, I'll let you rest for a bit. Steve left the file on Bucky on the desk for you to study. Dinner is at 8:00, down the hall from here. See you then." He raises a palm in goodbye, then closes the door silently behind him.

I flop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. White; just like almost everything in this place. It's such a contrast to these people; the compound is so clean and pristine, but these people are dirty and messy. Good intentions, but foiled plans. This place is like a mask: something to hide the people's nature inside.

But what a good portrayal of humans. A mask and underneath is a body full of dirt and worms. Although, being a psychologist, I suppose I read too much into these things.

I spend ten minutes trying to figure out how to set the high-tech alarm to ring for 7:50pm, and when I get it, I drift off for a quick catnap. Having been on a motorcycle for three hours, a plane for three, a car for two, and then an interrogation, it's that kind of sleep that just feels so good.

Thus, I feel like killing when the alarm beeps and I smack the machine with the ferocity of a lion. Although, I immediately check and make sure I haven't broken it. Classic me.

Despite everything, I'm kinda happy. I'm about to meet the Avengers; who on God's green earth gets to say that without having to be attacked by aliens or robots? This is probably the most exciting and nerve-racking experience of my life, which is weird, considering I've lived in a place where the death percentage is up by fifty percent.

I decide to change into a flowy black dress, my last clothes having through a lot and being overall frumpy, and head out my room. The hall is completely silent and when I peek into Wanda's room, nobody is there.

I wander down the hall, glancing in doors, but once I reach the end of the hall preceding the bedroom foyer, I see a group of people eating around a large table. Complete silence.

It feels awkward walking into a noiseless room; it makes me feel that much more conspicuous. As soon as I enter the room, all eyes are on me. And that's when I get a good look at their faces; all utterly dejected and cheerless.

Steve comes out of the hypnotic silence, and stands, saying loudly, "Ella! Come on in. Take a seat." He seems rather taken aback at his voice echoing through the room.

Lightly resting a hand on my back, Steve leads me to a seat next to Sam. I'm glad to be sitting next to someone I know amongst this sea of doleful faces. Clearing his throat, Steve declares, "Everyone, this is Ella Walin, the psychologist here to help Bucky."

Some nod, others say hi monotonously. "Hi guys." I quickly grab a piece of pizza from a box at in the middle of the table and nibble on it, trying to seem occupied and in place.

The dismal attitude is beginning to absorbing into me. A man with awesome brown hair glances around the room, looking at the few people around him until he finally locks eyes on me and says, "I'm Scott; Scott Lang. Nice to meet you." He reaches across the table to shake my hand. "It's good to know there's a shrink around. I think we could all use a session." Scott chuckles a little but I can tell he means it.

"Nice to meet you too, Scott!" I try to speak as cheerfully as possible. It's hard to fake a smile when everyone seems like they would rather die than laugh, though.

"I'm Clint," A man with light brown hair and a small goatee says. "And I'm Wanda," The girl from earlier says, brushing a small strand of hair from her face.

"You already know who I am," Sam jokes lightly.

Small chuckles circle around the room, and a little conversation ensues, the ice now broken. They ask me a few general questions but the focus is mainly on eating. It takes the pressure out meeting them, to some extent.

Slowly, they leave the room, taking their paper plates with them. Clint gets up first and leaves the room, Wanda following him, then Scott leaves with a small grin my way.

When it's just me, Steve, and Sam, clarifying talk of Bucky's upcoming treatment starts. Steve begins by asking the very clear question, "So, um, what exactly is the plan."

"I don't know yet. Usually the procedure for PTSD involves sessions together, in which the traumatic events are discussed. And this should help with the memory problem too. But I really can't tell you how I will precede until I talk with him. Whenever I can talk with him, I should be ready. I plan on studying his file tomorrow."

Sam and Steve comically nod in unison. When neither of them speak, I continue, "Is there a space that we can have the sessions together?"

Steve shakes his head slightly, clearing it, and responds, "We have a room we'll show you tomorrow."

I stand from my chair, and it scrapes the floor. "Well, I'll bid you goodnight."

"Goodnight."

I head back to my room and flop back onto my bed. Not even bothering to change or brush my teeth, I fall into a restless sleep.

/

Floating. Blackness. Utter suspension in space in time.

A never ending cycle of darkness, there are no dreams; your brain cells don't move, being completely frozen over. They lie waiting, until with a rush, bright lights flood the dark. None, and then all at once, your night turns to the brightest daylight.

The first thought in Bucky's mind is I'm drowning. As Steve, Sam, and T'challa watch on, Bucky shakes, trying to pull out of his restraints. But they hold him down as more water is rained on top of him like a waterfall. It flows like rivits of a stream flow with iridescent smoothness; water skimming the ice that coats his body.

Bucky coughs up some of the it, opening his mouth for the first time in a month. The water flows right over his face because of his tilted upright position, but it still gets stuck, with a burning sensation, in the back of his throat.

The deforestation process involves cold water cascading down Bucky inside the capsule, gradually getting warmer until his whole body is up to temp. It is then filtered out of the cryo through a tube, so the whole thing doesn't fill up.

Steve watches as his best friend wakes from his long sleep. Bucky tries prying his eyelids open, his eyelashes coated in frost. And now that his body is almost entirely unfrozen, Steve walks into the room where a scientist is conducting the procedure. Through the window of the capsule, Bucky watches as Steve and the scientist discuss the next step of deforestation.

Anger flushes over his body like the water; he doesn't understand why Steve would wake him. He is still dangerous. With a whoosh of pressure, the capsule opens and Steve catches Bucky in his arms as he falls forward, unsteady on his legs.

"Steve.." Bucky mumbles.

"What is it Buck?" Asks Steve, concerned, helping his friend to a medical examination table.

"Why-" He sputters, coughing up more water. The scientist/doctor hurrys to his side and gives him an oxygen mask to help his body get used to breathing once again. After inhaling deep for a minute, Cap standing there looking worried, Bucky continues, "Why did you bring me out." His blue eyes meet Steve's.

"We found it Buck. We can get rid of the words." Bucky stares, taking in all of what that means, and Steve smiles wildly.

"It's best you rest for a little though, before the procedure."

"You're going to lock me up, right?" Bucky suddenly becomes fully aware and awake and begins to shrink back from the doctor's touch. He doesn't want to hurt and kill again. "Bucky, we don't-" He's interrupted, "Put me away, Steve." The Winter Soldier speaks firmly. "I won't risk the lives of anyone on this compound."

With a sigh, Steve excuses himself from the room and converses with T'challa and Sam. When Bucky is given the OK, he is immediately put in the same blue square as Ella was just two days ago; a decision that the three agreed upon. When Steve peers into the small eyehole on the door, he sees Bucky sitting on the edge of his cot, head in hands, hair overflowing through his fingers.

With an almost silent swoosh of air, Steve pushes the door open and sits on one of the leftover seats. It's hard for him to push out the words; what do you say to your best friend about having to go through a brain racking procedure to undo being brainwashed, and then having to endure months of therapy?

With a deep breath, he makes his case. "Listen Buck, this won't be easy to hear, but this procedure to clean your mind…. It won't be pretty."

"I know that, Steve. It's never easy." Bucky's words are muffled. "But it's worth it."

Heaving a sigh of relief, Steve tries to end the conversation by beating around the bush. Cap speaks remarkably fast, "And after it's done we brought in the best therapist for you we could find and I mean of course it might take a long time but-" Bucky looks up and interrupts him, saying, "A therapist?"

Deep inside, the broken Winter Soldier desperately longs for help; to be brought out of the darkness he has so long endured. And seeing as Bucky's a reasonable fellow, it would make sense for him to accept the help. But the pride of being a man and, for that matter, a soldier, assassin, and New Yorker, makes him question Steve.

"I'll be fine." Bucky flops back on the mattress turning away and pressing a palm to his forehead; the pounding headache is getting worse.

"Listen, I know it's not what you want, but you really need help Bucky. The headaches are getting worse, aren't they?"

"It's just from the cryo." He mumbles, his back facing Steve.

"Yeah, maybe, but before; when you were on the run. They were bad, weren't they?" Grabbing Bucky's shoulder, he forces him to look into his face. Bucky's face remains passive but his mind really is splitting.

"How did you know?"

"I had it. I had post traumatic stress disorder Buck. When I woke from being a Capsicle, I knew I needed to stay strong, so I ignored everything I was feeling. It was vital that I received help, though; the headaches were never ending, nightmares of the war and losing Peggy... I couldn't punch out all my feelings, and neither can you just avoid them."

"Steve, I'm sorry, I didn't…" He trails off.

"No. You didn't know. Just do it for me, see this girl. She has been studying your file for a whole day now, and if anyone can help you, Ella can."

With the swiftness of a cheetah, the Winter Soldier grabs Steve's arm as he stands. The yellow light paints Bucky's face in a morbid way. Sick, just like his mind.

Practically pleading, he says, "Don't bring her to see me until the words are gone. Please."

With a clasp to the shoulder, Steve says, "Of course."

Bucky goes back to his fatal position and Cap leaves the room. But both need to feed off the other because without the other, they are malnourished. When it was just the two of them in Brooklyn, they bounced off of each other's strength. Steve had to be tough, while Bucky was usually the defender and rock. But when his sister died, Steve was a crutch for him; a vitality. Separation is not healthy.

As both soldiers stay at their appointed posts, neither feels at ease. A sort of relief washed over Bucky when Steve said he too has suffered from PTSD but Steve had control. It feels like a forced thing for Bucky: forced therapy, forced mental procedure- everything forced since Hydra. Obviously Bucky knows it's all in his best interest. And the procedure was an idea he was all in for. But deep inside, for a reason he just can't pin down, anger boils.

Steve just wants to help, as ever. It is just so hard for the old man. It's like a fire constantly burning inside him, turning into a wildfire when provoked.

All night both stay awake. In fact, almost everyone is awake.

Wanda is laying on her side, blue-green irises staring at a picture of a family: a mother with brown hair and almond eyes that match her daughters, a father with a blond mane that matches his son's. Her thoughts and vision become blurry as tears stream down her pale face. The lose of Wanda's family cuts to her heart; she needs her family for guidance- she was pulled from them to soon.

Scott is also focused on an image. His young, messy haired, tooth missing, daughter; his sweet girl. And he abandoned her; his promise was broken.

Clint also broke a similar promise: to stay home. He has broken it for far longer than he ever intended. It kills Clint to his very being; the guilt coursing through his very body every time he thinks of where he is and where he's supposed to be. And every time his old farm house comes to mind, so does his wife, and how she probably wants to kill him, (And how Clint would love to let her if it meant seeing that beautiful face one more time.), and how he's surely missing Nathan's first steps.

Steve is awake, hoping, nay, praying that everything will help Bucky get back to normal. If that's even possible.

The only person awake is Sam and only because he used sleeping pills; the only way he can keep out any nightmares. Old memories can still pop up in the form of a phantasma from time to time.

And Bucky just woke up from a nightmare. He lays silently screaming into his pillow, tears melting into the fabric. He heaves, as if trying to force the images out of his body with the sheer force of his beaths.

But tomorrow, everything will change. Ascendancy will descend onto these broken hero's.

/


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

When I wake up, I realize that part of the pillow underneath my mouth is soaked. Of course, being the sophisticated lady I am, I drooled all over my pillow.

It's not that surprising though. Slumber had overtaken my body like a flood after reading Mr. Barnes file until three. Exasperation that floods me every time I read it

Every single assassination, kidnapping, and theft he had ever performed was recorded in the file. Details could be vague at times, but to be honest, I didn't think Mr. Barnes would remember any of this. Because of his memory loss and all.

But if there's one thing I've found out through all my workings with soldiers young and old, is that they _never_ forget the people they killed. And Bucky is no exception. Most soldier aren't as intimate though. War and shooting off with a gun at a few hundred men isn't like looking someone in the face and killing them.

Despite it all, a plan has formed in the old coconut. But you always have to gauge a person's mental state before the course of procedures can be determined. Most likely, after the trigger words are erased, it will start with me just getting to know him. That's simple enough. Hopefully.

And though they are in dire need of help, not all people are willing to have help and their participation is absolutely necessary. I can't just magically make the pain go away.

I wipe any saliva off my mouth and head to the small bathroom in my room, carrying my clothes for with me. Having taken a shower yesterday, I get dressed than stare at myself in the mirror. Hughm.

My brown hair is terribly messy, and my bangs got swept to the side in an awkward way last night. Now the wisps lay funky on my forehead. Looking at my face makes me wish desperately that I had some makeup; I hadn't brought any with me to the refugee camp. I'm about to see an incredibly handsome and muscular super solder, two actually, and I look a little like trash.

I'm not that kind of girl who likes a ton of makeup, but when you have incredibly bad under eye circles, sunburned skin, and squinty eyes, it would make anyone half mad for some. _Maybe Wanda will have makeup._ Since Natasha had left, (some secret mission in Russia they said) me and Wanda are the only two girls on the compound. Not that I really mind being surrounded by a bunch of hot men, but another female's comradery is appreciated.

After I get dressed in a pair of skinny jeans and a black button up shirt with golden doves on it, I go down the hall to Wanda's room. The door cracks open slightly when I knock, and she peeks out at me. Half her hair messy and the other smooth and straight, she looks a little wild when she says, "Oh, Ella. Can I help you?"

"I was just wondering if you had any makeup I could borrow. But if you're busy…" I say, stepping away from the door a little, but she stops. "No, no, please, I was just flattening my hair. Come in," Wanda gestures to the inside of her room.

It would be bright in here like the rest of the compound, but Wanda has the heavy curtains pulled shut. The whole room is dark albeit for the small amount of sunlight that made it's way through the curtains veneer. But room is absolutely flawless; the bed is made and not a thing is out of place. I would want to show that off.

Wanda goes back into her bathroom, and I hear her rustling around. A picture on her nightstand catches my eye. The frame is battered and the glass is covered in scratches. I pick it up and see a family on it, one is Wanda. I can tell from her pretty, long hair. They seem happy, despite looking slightly underfed and wearing clothes stitched one time too many.

When Wanda comes out of the bathroom, carrying some products in her hands, she catches me studying the image. I quickly set it down, sensing it's personal. "That was my family," She says softly.

"Their beautiful. Is that your brother?" I ask. I already know the answer, but I'm hoping to prompt her to open up.

"Yes," Wanda replies, taking the picture from my hands. "He died."

It's hard to even imagine what that would be like. My worst fear has always been that someone in my family might die, but all of Wanda's did. "I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it with every inch of my being.

"It's okay," Wanda says in her heavy Sokovian accent. She softly caresses the picture, tracing her finger along every splinter and chick in a way that proves it's a motion she does often. Wanda places it on her nightstand. A forced smile forms on her lips. "I'm healing. And he died saving Clint and a little boy. It's good knowing that."

"Yes. But it's still not easy, is it?" I ask. Rather declare. Wanda looks away and sits on her bed. "I once watched this show," I sit on the bed next to her, "and they proclaimed that we 'live together, die alone'. But that's never true. No one is alone. Nobody dies alone, Wanda. Your brother knew that, thanks to you. And now you are not alone; you have people who love you, who care about you, would live or die for you." I place my hand in hers, letting the mascara fall to the floor. Her beautiful, almond eyes brim with tears.

"No matter what you've done, these people, these crazy Avengers," One of those random, sporadic laughs, erupts from my mouth, "will love you. Please don't _ever_ forget that."

All this is true. I didn't know her brother, but I know that someone who holds so dear the memory of her dead family, must have been close to them. And I'm sure they loved her. Of course, this small speech is only the beginning of a long road to recovery. But it's a start.

Wanda wipes her eyes with her long sleeve pulled over her hand. Voice shaky, she replies, "Thank you Ella."

"Of course," I say gently. "And, um, thank you for the makeup!" Wanda looks down and realizes she dropped it all to the floor.

"Oh! Sure. Here," She gathers all of the things into my lap and does a small laugh. "I'm going to go finish my hair," Wanda points her thumb towards the bathroom, where a yellow light emits. While she scrambles off to finish flat ironing, and possibly to finish wiping her tears from my heartfelt dialog, I go back to my room. The foundation, mascara, and a little lip stick thankfully make me look less like a Pretty Girl garbage can and more like an actual pretty girl. We meet up outside her room and chat as we head towards the dinning room. It looks as if I've made a friend.

Steve is making coffee in the kitchen that's off the dining room, and I pull out a chair at the white marble island. "You mind if I have some of that?" I ask.

Wanda lets out a scoff. "You won't want any of his coffee," Her chair screeches as she slides it out. "Steve uses the filter that lets grounds get into the coffee because it's how they made it in the war."

"Now Wanda," Steve starts, pointing the scoop at her face, "There wasn't much coffee during the war. So when we got it, we weren't worried about making it perfection."

"But you can now," Wanda sarcastically remarks. We burst out laughing at Steve's exasperated sigh. I get up to make myself a pot. There are actually three: the one Steve is using and two others, one really fancy.

I begin to make myself a cup using the deluxe machine but Wanda and Steve both shout at the same time, "STOP!"

"Why?" I ask, confused.

"That's Clint's coffee machine," Steve answers. Wanda adds, "And nobody touches it, or Clint might," She uses her hands to make an exploding motion. Small tendrils of red light up in a firework like display in the air between her fingers. Her powers are freaking awesome.

"Geezers. I guess I'll use this machine then," I reply. Steve starts making some eggs while I brew a pot, and the small talk continues cheerfully until Bucky is brought up.

"Will it hurt?" Wanda asks of the procedure to remove the trigger words.

With a sigh, Steve replies, "Probably, yes. The machine we made takes the neurons in the brain that control the actions and floods them with electric signals that reverse the brainwashing effect. Apparently that hurts." My brain just hurts thinking about how the procedure hurts.

"At least he'll be himself again and not a zombie assassin," Scott comments simply, shoveling eggs into his mouth. So glad he joined us, blessing us with those honest words of wisdom.

"True," I say. "Still bad though."

We all finish eating in silence; nobody wishes to talk more of the dire subject. The operation is this morning and I won't see Bucky until this evening, after he has rested. The whole day is mine to waste watching Lost (I couldn't get it out of my head after the speech earlier with Wanda), until Steve catches me in the hall after breakfast. "Hey, Ella. I wanted to know if you would come. You know, to the procedure. I'm just… worried something might happen and your the brain expert."

I'm not really sure I want to watch. But it's selfish to only think about myself when it's the least I could do. Mr. Barnes is my patient, after all, and it's my duty to go. "Um, sure."

A look of gratitude washes over Steve's face. "Thanks. It's in the medical room at 10:00 o'clock. I really appreciate it Ella."

I nod in response and head back to my room. Every piece of paper in the file I have read twice over, but I still feel the need to reread it all. Today is the day I'm going to meet this man and I need to be ready.

The first part of my plan for him is almost complete: music. All last night I spent picking out soothing spa-like music, and they are almost finished downloading on an ipod I asked Sam for. It's relatively new science actually, and results are being proven as true. The brain and nervous system can be unbalanced after traumatic situations and the songs will Bucky reorient himself before we start our sessions. It is hard for people to speak of their experiences when the part of the brain that affects the connection of speech to memory is impaired.

Sometimes hypnosis and massaging are used, but considering I'm not a magician or masseuse, downloading music is the best I can do. Aside from the songs, the aspect of him missing an arm is going to be a challenge too. Physical can affect the mental just as much as anything. I haven't been trained very much in the way of physical therapy or creative techniques with which to help people with disabilities adjust, but I did have to take a course on it. I'm not sure how much it will help, but I can be pretty creative if I want to be. Not that knowing how to make an origami crane will help much.

And the more I think about helping Bucky, the more I want to succor him. Somewhere deep inside me is the feeling that I won't leave this place an unchanged women.

I'm so immersed in the account of a breakout from Alcatraz that Bucky conducted flawlessly, that I don't realize the procedure has started. Like an Olympic sprinter, I race down the hallway, all the while trying to figure out where the medical rooms are. Then I hear the screams. Like bloody murder is occurring, they echo down the halls and can be heard throughout the entire compound. Panic fills my veins, and it seems as if my heart beat has sped up to a hundred and twenty. Even though my body wants to run away, I race toward the source and only stop short when I see T'challa, king of Wakanda, staring through the one sided glass window.

Steve is there to, but all his focus is on Bucky, a look of complete fear covering every inch of his face. I think about bowing before T'challa, but he is too preoccupied by the yells coming from within, that I don't waste my time.

Inside sits a doctor staring at a computer screen. And then there's Bucky. Seated in a metal chair, restraints around his one wrist and ankles, the Winter Soldier is writhing as if on fire, sweat pouring down his red hot face. A metal helmet is strapped upon his head, with wires going down to the computer, along with small patches attached to his chest with more small wires leading to a monitor. Since his shoulder is not strapped down (since he has not left arm), Bucky's upper body bangs up and down against the metal chair, like a fish out of water. The sight might look hysterical if it weren't for the look on Bucky's face. Complete agony. This must have been what it was like all those times Hydra washed his memory.

This Bucky and the man I saw on the file's picture look so different. All I see is pain here. Messy hair and missing an arm, his physical appearance has changed too. Whereas the Mr. James Buchanan Barnes I had seen on the file was all confidence, this man is just pitiable.

Everything about this situation strikes me to the core with horror, and I stand there frozen. I glue my brown irises to a bar slowly loading on the computer screen. Only half way. I can tell Steve is disturbed, but when I rip my eyes away from the scene before me, I see T'challa with an unflinching reprose. It almost disturbes me more.

A cranium splitting screech emits from the room, and the glass does little to block the noise. Bucky's eyes are squeezed tightly shut and he never stops yelling. I want to cover my ears but instead stand there staring with all my concentration at the small bar moving across the screen. I imagine it as a slow moving caterpillar inching it's way across the screen, and the screams as the noise it makes when it moves. _Focus on your heartbeat._ The sporadic beating distracts me slightly. But nothing really works; nothing can block what happening before my eyes.

Suddenly, Bucky starts shouting out words that sound like Russian.

"Желаниe!" Bucky shouts loudly. A sort of growl escapes his chapped lips. He continues spouting out the Russian words, and I look over at Steve, who answers my questioning look. "His brain is fighting back. Those are the trigger words." Steve flinches as Bucky yells between the words.

"Oh," Is all I say in reply. The piercing screams are kind of hard to yell over.

Then, as if someone flipped a switch, all of the Winter Soldier's body goes limp in the metal chair. The doctor removes the helmet and wire patches, clicks a few buttons on the computer, checks Bucky's vitals, then beckons us in. The tall doctor with little round glasses, who reminds me of a black Mark Greene, starts removing the restraints. Bucky remains completely limp until all the ties are removed. Then, like a panther and with a wild, glazed look on his face, he leaps forward and grabs me around the neck.

All thoughts of ER quickly leave my brain as his brawny arm wraps around my throat. He drags me away from Steve and T'Challa, shouting, "Get back!" In a gravelly and hoarse voice. T'Challa springs forward as I gasp for air. Bucky tries to fight back, but seems to have overestimated his powers: he forgot about missing an arm. The strong triceps cutting off my breathing, slips easily when I pry the arm off my neck, trying to get out of the way before T'Challa punches my gut.

With a sickening crack, the king of Wakanda pouches Bucky's face, and he crumbles to the floor. As Bucky sinks to his knees, a look of realization, then horror passes over his features. I stand there panting, as Steve rushes to Bucky's form. He's still just staring at me. T'challa comes to my aid, asking, "Are you ok?", in a heavy Wakandan accent. But nice English. I respond by choking out, "Yes," and keep rubbing my bruised neck, coughing. When I glance at Mr. Barnes, he is on all fours, heaving.

With a warm hand on my back, T'Challa leads my from the room, sitting m on a cold chair. "Why did he attack me," I wheeze.

"When Hydra had him, they would wipe his memory using a painful procedure similar to this. I think he thought we were them." He replies, his dreamy brown eyes glancing between me and Bucky through the glass.

It was a flashback. They can sometimes happen when you have PTSD, but usually chokeholds don't occur. Of course, I don't hold any hard feelings against Bucky: he seems more upset than me. I gaze through the window, trying to calm my breathing. He looks up through his curtain of messy, brown locks, straight into my eyes and I can see the deep regret.

"We want to read the words just in case," I can hear Steve's muffled voice say to Bucky.

T'Challa goes back into the room with a leather book with a red star on the front cover. Bucky looks up widely and shouts "NO!" forcefully. But T'Challa just raises his eyebrows. He starts reading out-loud the Russian words.

Bucky closes his beautiful blue eyes, tight, and curls into a ball with a hand over one ear. I move closer to the glass, something compelling me to witness this strange sight. I can hear Bucky whispering "No" at differentiating volumes, but the same amount of misery. "Желание," T'Challa reads with perfect diction. I suppose the princes of Wakanda are taught many languages. I could never even master Spanish.

"Pжавые," He says. Bucky whimpers ever so slightly. Fear courses through me: what if the words have not been erased? Mr. Barnes seems to be fighting them, but the words might just be triggering terrible memories, not brainwashing.

"Cемнадцать," Wakanda's king continues. Bucky starts breathing heavy, tears trail down his face. "No… I'm sorry," He mumbles through his breath. I jump when the winter soldier slams his palm onto the floor in distress and anger. I have been so focused on Bucky, that I didn't notice Steve.

Teeth clenched, knuckles white from his balled fists, emotion is threatening to flood onto his face. This is his best friend. What I had never thought about until this moment was the Avengers' lives. They spend their days kicking butt, that they never get to actually _live_. All Steve has from his old life, the only time when he had a true home, is this Mr. James Buchanan Barnes. Clint is the only one I know of who has been able to have a family despite this job. And even that he is losing.

And then this all becomes that much more important. Not only am I here help rebuild a life, I'm here to rebuild a family. The Avengers will probably never be able to lead a normal lives. But that doesn't mean they can't be a family.

"Rрузовой автомобиль," T'Challa proclaims monotonously, the last of the words. I sigh, then inhale, determination filling my lungs. I can do this. I can help break the spell these words still hold over Bucky. Because even though they hold no real power, aka he won't turn into an assassin if read them, it's obvious they still have a hold over him. Bucky is still curled up on the concrete floor.

When Steve and the doctor begin guiding the Winter Soldier out of the room, I take it as my cue to leave.

Wanda is sitting in the rec room, a large windowed area complete with a snack bar, foosball table, a plasma flat screen with a million movies, and a ton of board games, when I arrive. She sits on the white leather couch, staring blankly at a book. I can tell she is distracted by the procedure that just occurred, thus just seeing the words, not reading them.

"Hey." I sit on the couch next to her. "Hi," She reply's. Skipping straight to the point, Wanda asks, "How is he?"

"Not good. It worked, but he's pretty shaken up." The sheer amount of concern on her face leads me to ask, "Did you and Bucky get pretty close?"

"I barely talked to him," Wanda admits. "But everything he went through... And those screams." She shakes her head, looking back at her book. "I really hope you can help him."

"Me too," I say, "Me too."

/


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

I stand outside his bedroom, pacing the hallway and turning the ipod around in my sweaty palms. The doctor is checking Bucky's vitals one more time. Then I'll go in. I will finally meet my patient. Well, besides the one time I nearly got killed. Hopefully that doesn't affect our relationship to much.

The door opens and the black doctor, aka, Marc Greene, walks out. He says in his heavy Wakandan accent, "He's doing good. You can go in now." His stride is long as he starts down the hall, but Greene then turns back toward me. "Good luck."

"Thanks," I respond.

I stare at the door. This is the beginning of a long journey, and I'm nervous. But I open the door, hesitantly, nonetheless.

Bucky's room is just like mine: white and simple, although, his windows are closed. The soldier's long form is laying across the once crisp bed. Changed into a black shirt and sweatpants, Bucky's skull is rested against the headboard. His eyes are closed, but when I step into the room, my feet stepping lightly on the hardwood floor, they snap open.

"Hi," I say timidly. But then I realize it's time to get into business mode. Business mode is different for me, however. I'm required to act as a friend but it still means being the initiator. It's not in my nature, however, to be extremely forward. So this added pressure just adds more butterflies to my stomach.

I strive forward with feigned confidence, walking straight up to him. Grabbing his hand and shaking it, I'm a little taken aback when he doesn't reciprocate the action. Rather, Bucky pulls his hand away, his dull eyes steering clear of my face. Sucking in a breath, I try to muster up a good introduction. "Um, Hi. I'm Ella Walin." _Obviously. "_ I'm going to be working with you these next few months. This is just an introduction, though, considering all you've been through today."

"Right," Is all he says in reply.

I try forcing myself to be engaging. But, my mind blanks and I've basically lost any good communication skills I once had. If only he would communicate! The regret from earlier's incident emanates from him: Bucky won't make eye contact or bodily contact, and seems as if he's trying to ignore my existence. And by ignoring me, ignoring what he did.

"Yes. Um, so I brought you something." Stuff! People like stuff. So, give people stuff, equals people like you. Logic. I hand him the ipod.

He stares at it and asks blankly, "What is this?"

Oh, right. I guess since Hydra had him, Bucky didn't get to see a lot of everyday modern technology. "It's an ipod," I clarify. "It plays music."

"Oh." Is all he says. He and Natahsa: both not big talkers. I decide to not give him personal space, seeing as he isn't feeling any more comfortable with me standing across from him.

Bucky shirks back slightly when I plop down next to him on the bed, but I don't care. I take the player from his hands, and the little screen lights up with some African name. "On it is music that will help orientate your brain and nervous system." I explain, showing him how to use the ipod at the same time. "It's difficult for people to talk about their experiences when everything has been messed with. But don't worry, it's not all spa music!" I throw in an odd chuckle. "I put in a couple of my favorite songs." I crack out a friendly smile, but Bucky just continues to look at the piece of electronic in my hand. Hopefully he really likes Twenty One Pilots. Then maybe he'll like me because I introduced their music to his now-TOPless ears. "You probably didn't listen to much when you were on the run."

"Sometimes the radio, but it was all Bulgarian rap, so it was hard to understand." Bucky replies. I laugh, and his blue eyes look up at me. He (finally!) breaks out the first grin I've seen from him.

I feel like I should take advantage of this moment, so I ask, "I know that this is kind of uncomfortable, but I would like to know if you remember anything from your past? Just so that I know we can start from there."

"I remember some things." Is all Bucky responses. But that answer is too vague for me. "Like… what?" I ask.

"Everything that was in that file." He replies flatly. Bucky seems to be avoiding the question, not that I'm really surprised. I doubt that we'll get far on the first session.

It's been a long day for him, so I slip off the bed. My red flats land softly on the rug. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow. Oh, and here are some headphones." I toss him the white wires and walk out of the room.

When I shut the door behind me, I'm glad to be out of there. First meetings are always awkward, and that one was not the worst. A lot of people, when they meet me, immediately go into a rant about some random, awful thing that has happened to them. Silence is not the worst, believe me. But the aura of darkness that shrouds his room… It sounds kind of crazy, but that's really the only way I can describe it.

I walk down the hall, thoughts racing through my mind, when I hear voices. Something inside me makes my feet stick at the end of the hallway. T'Challa and Steve's soft murmurs can be heard from my spot behind the wall. This place is just so full of secrets that I long to understand, that eavesdropping is a risk I'm willing to take.

T'Challa is speaking, his voice calm. "...I'm just saying Steve, she might not be able to help him. I tried to kill your friend, and as retribution I offered for you to stay here. Mr. Barnes and my father were both victims. I know the good you can do and your loyalty is something I admire. But, it got you and the rest of your Avengers labeled as fugitives."

"What are you trying to say?" Steve asks, his tone serious (it almost always is). I lean in closer.

"If Mr. Barnes goes out of this facility, the government will take him, then the rest of you will be captured, too. Whether the information comes from his mouth by way of torture or recompense, I do not know. If Ms. Walin cannot help him, you may have to think of an alternative."

"Like locking him up?! Putting him back in cryo?! I knew what I was doing when I helped Bucky. All of us are fugitives, I know that. I got Wanda, Clint, Scott, and Sam out of Starks prison because I thought we could do some good. Buck has control, and if he _does_ goes AWOL, for whatever reason, I can assure you I won't let them go down with him. Only me."

"But the team needs you. You are the leader of your people, your family. Captain, you can't-"

"I AM NOT A CAPTAIN ANY MORE!" Steve's booming voice echoes down the hall. " THERE IS _no FAMILY!_ I know d*mn well that this is no family! What this is- it's war! Constant and never changing. You know," A dry and heartless laugh escapes Steve's lips. "I persuaded Clint to come here and now he's lost his family. I never left the war behind me one minute; instead I brought it to each one of these people! I teared apart families- it all started with me!" His shouts are loud and forceful; pain emanates from his voice. "I can never have a family, and now they never can." Steve gestures around him. "Don't you think it kills me that I drug all of them into this because of Bucky. I don't regret what I did, but now everyone is more broken than before. So don't you _dare_ tell me that they need me, that this is some kind of team. I'm not Captain America," Steve says again, the volume of his voice lowered, as if sealing in the point; welding the phrase into his brain. "And I'm not this team's leader." Steve gets close to T'Challa. "I don't know what I am, but I know what we're not. The Avengers were Tony's; it was never mine. The only thing that matters is that these are individuals who have given their life to help humanity; _they_ are the hope, not the team. Together the Avengers rose, and together we fell. I won't let that happen again. Each person in this compound has to make their own choice."

"And you think forcing Bucky into that procedure, and now months of therapy, is a choice?" T'Challa questions, his eyebrows raised and his accent heavy.

"The only thing that I know is if I lose Bucky again, then everything I did, everything I ever fought or stood for, is gone. And if I lose that, I'm better off back in that ice."

And with that mic drop, Steve leaves T'Challa standing there. Steve's walking my way, his head down, staring at the white floor. I don't want him to know I was eavesdropping, so I run down the hallway to Bucky's bedroom door. I was going to pretend like I was just coming from there and not go in, but Bucky stands in the entryway.

He looks surprised to see me. I am surprised to see him out of his room. "Shh," I whisper, putting my finger to my chapped lips. I slide past him and into the dim room. A confused expression coats Bucky's face. He looks back out the door frame, where I see Steve just passing the hall. My quick exhale turns into a huffed laugh.

"Sorry. I haven't eavesdropped much."

A look of understanding dawns on Bucky's face. "Oh, well I'm sure Steve made it easy for you." I raise my eyebrows and concede. "You're not wrong."

"Whenever Steve went on a blind date I set up for him, I would always sit two tables down, watching him from behind a menu." A dreamy expression befalls Bucky's face. The faraway look displays his distant thoughts of the past. He chuckles and continues, "Steve can have a loud voice, especially when he's nervous."

Ah, so it seems he does remember more than he's let on. "Did he know?"

"He pretended not to, but he did." I laugh, and Bucky cracks a grin. His blue irises sparkle. I push myself off the wall, and say, "I best be going. Steve's going to wonder how our meeting went."

"Wait." Bucky blocks me with his one arm, but wobbles slightly. He seems so uncomfortable with just one upper limb. All those years so heavily relying on his strong, metal arm… It must be incredibly disorienting to have the thing you once depended so much on, to be taken from you. "What did they say?" Bucky questions, steadying himself.

Alarms go off in my brain. Bucky doesn't need to hear any of that. Steve had just said so much… I couldn't even process it. My head picks through it's small box of excuses, only to come up with an incredibly lousy one. "Just things."

"Please. I think I deserve the truth." His eyes probe me.

Bucky's right. But it's not my truth to tell, nor one I think he needs to hear. "It's not my place to say. Ask Steve."

Bucky gives me a dubious look. "You really think Steve would tell me something that he thinks is to hard for me to hear? Whatever it is, you're the only person who can be straight with me. Right?"

What a move. Of course he knows that I want him to trust me. And he's using that to get information from me. It's not hard to tell he was an assassin for years.

"It's just…." I decide to say it like you would rip off a bandage: all at once. "T'Challa is afraid I can't help you and that you go AWOL and leave the compound." Bucky's expression remains passive. "Steve, of course, said he would stand by you no matter what." _Like a loyal labrador_. I leave out the bit about it being partially his fault for the Avengers being fugitives. And that Steve seems to have lost part of his identity.

But Bucky seems to sense it anyway. "So T'Challa thinks I'll be dangerous. He's right." Bucky removes his hand from the wall, allowing me to pass. His square jaw is clenched, framed by his messy, brown hair. I want to say something, but it's evident he won't listen to me.

I walk out the door, but glance back. My entire body is urging me to say something. I quietly whisper under my breath, "You have control."

With a quick bang, the door closes at my back. Steve catches me near my bedroom door. When I see him, it's like looking at a different person. Nothing has changed since I met him, but now I see through his serious veneer. I attempt a small smile. "How did it go," Steve questions. Concern paints his face; his strong jaw is tight. He clenches it just like Bucky.

"It was fine." But I think I must grimace, because Steve immediately questions, "What's wrong?"

I look up and down the hall. "Come in," I gesture to the inside of my room. When I shut the door behind me, Steve immediately gives me an expectant look. I finger the crinkled pages of my notebook, and sit at my desk. "I umm.. Heard you. Talking to T'Challa. I had to tell Bucky."

"You.. what?" Steve whispers.

Oh no. I didn't mean to make him upset, but it was inevitable once his and T'Challa's words entered my ears. "I'm sorry Steve, but he knows you believe in him. Listen, I have a plan now. And none of this was _ever_ going to be easy. It doesn't change anything, just the fact that you are imperative to his recovery." Steve stands there, his head bowed. "He needs to understand that he is valuable to the team, not a burden."

Nobody can prove to Bucky that he is invaluable. He has to know that from within, no matter what anyone else believes. Bucky has worth to the world far beyond what he can see. We are only here to help expand his horizons.

"And how can I do that, besides what I've already done?" Steve proclaims.

"Involve him. Treat him like he's not going to break. He's not ready for any missions yet, but when he is, take him. I have a plan, but it will take some time."

"Fine." Steve walks out of the room.

I fall on my bed in unison with the door closing. _What can I even do?_ Steve has lost his identity. Clint- his family. Wanda- her belief in herself. Bucky- his memories and life.

What struck me so hard was the fact that Steve never could live a normal life. None of them could. They gave up their _lives_ for humanity, and look where they are now. I knew this already, but when Steve broke out in passion and fury, I saw that my suspicions were not only true, but really felt.

After the fight for his country was won, Steve never stopped fighting until he found Bucky. In a short matter of years he lost and found everything that was ever important to him: He lost Bucky, than Peggy; only to find them both- but they didn't remember him. And it didn't stop there. Steve lost them yet again. Peggy died (Sam told me), then Steve found Bucky, only to realize that the charming, brave, man he once knew, was lost. Bucky is buried so deep in regret, that he can't be that persona of the past.

And I once thought Captain America was perfect. There is no such word. Nowhere in this world have I seen anything so deeply miserable. As I lay there, on this sickly white bed, tears fall down my face. I can't help these people. Desperation wells inside me. Everybody in this whole _place_ is broken, one way or another, and so am I.

A sob escapes my lips and every inch of my being wants to run away from this place. _I CAN'T DO THIS_. Repeats over and over inside my head. That feeling of complete and utter defeat overwhelms my body (a similar feeling that occurs when doing a really frustrating math problem).

And I haven't even started.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"I could have done it," Wanda whispers. "But I didn't; I don't even think anybody thought to ask me. Over and over I thought about it, but then I decided 'no'. I can not do it for him. Everybody has to overcome their own demons, or they aren't truly gone. In one moment I could rid Bucky's mind of those words, I could make him forget what he knew of Hydra. So many things I could've done- but I didn't."

Clint sighs, and wraps an arm around her shoulders. There is a slight breeze this evening, as both Wanda and Clint watch the sunset from a swinging bench on the veranda.

Scott is playing video games, Sam is trying out weapons in the gym, Ella is napping, T'Challa left, and Steve and Bucky are in their respective rooms. But Wanda and Clint sit together.

Hawkeye lightly presses his foot on the ground, causing the swing to keep up its rocking momentum. "You're right, I guess," Clint says, breaking the silence. "He has to work this out on his own. I don't even know why they brought a therapist in. I never trusted the shrinks when I worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. 'Tell me about this, tell me about that.'" Clint uses a mocking voice. "'Blah, blah, blah.'"

"I think she's nice," Wanda comments.

"That's what they want you to think."

"And you know," Clint stands up. "Stop blaming yourself, because if it weren't for Stark, none of this would've happened. Heck, you wouldn't be here, you would be at home with your family! _I_ would be home with _my_ family."

"That is not what we were talking about," Wanda says quietly, looking at her hands.

"But isn't it?" In a show of anger, Clint begins to pace the veranda. He clenches his fists. "Everything was going fine in my life. I was going to go ski-boarding with my kids, before I got dragged into this mess! I was retired! But no," He cracks out a dry chuckle. "Stark had to create Ultron, which caused the government to get mad, which caused the Accords and on and on and on." Clint makes a spinning motion with his hands.

"No, Clint, you only came because of me. To try and help me. This is my fault." Wanda presses her palms to her face.

Clint's countenance softens for the young Sokovian; his fatherly instincts kick in. "No, Wanda, that's not what I meant." He takes his seat next to her again on the red, cushioned swing.

"But it is!" Wanda takes her hands off her face and waves her hands madly. "I killed all those people Clint! That's what caused the Accords. It gave Zemo the perfect opportunity to stage that bombing; the reason all of us are here, and not together as a team."

"But even more innocent people would be dead if it weren't for you," Clint insists.

"You can't say that. I could have done something, Clint. I could have helped Bucky, too." Regret spills from Wanda's voice.

"Just blame Stark. It's easier."

/

When I wake up, it's 6:00 o'clock in the morning. I swallow, trying to get the sour taste in my mouth. My stomach growls, and I need food. So I head out of the room, careful to close the door quietly behind me. The sun is just beginning to rise, but the halls still have that early morning darkness. It's my favorite time of the day, as long as I'm not incredibly tired. A soft, white light can be seen shining out of the entryway in the kitchen.

"Well, hey." I jump when I hear the voice behind me. Sam. It is hard to see his dark form in the shadow's of the kitchen. "Your up early," Sam says with a smile.

"Yep. Slept through dinner." Not the first time it's happened, actually. "Do you have any plain Cheerios?" I say, groping through the different boxes.

"What?!" Sam exclaims.

"It's my favorite cereal! It's like crack." I find some and carry a bowl to the kitchen island. Sitting on the stool next to him, I start eating. Sam's eating what looks to be fruitloops. "And you're questioning my cereal choices? Gosh, I haven't eaten those in forever, five year old." I point towards his bowl with my spoon. My and Sam begin to reminisce about the past and favorite cereals.

It's nice to have a normal conversation for once. Agony had overwhelmed me last night but there's something about the early morning to lift your spirits. Maybe it's the thought of a whole sunny day, that makes it seem like anything is possible.

When we finish eating, Sam takes me to my new office. It amazing. There is a whole wall made of windows overlooking the lush jungle. The sun is just beginning to rise over the mountain, which are shrouded in a white haze, and it's hard for me to tear my eyes away. But I do and see two white leather chairs face each other, and a desk sits in the corner. "Wow." I say.

I take the file and notebook in my hands and set them down on the polished wooden desk. "So, can you, by any chance, prescribe meds?" Sam asks out of the blue.

"No," I reply. "Why?"

"Well, um, my sleeping pills have stopped working. I thought maybe you could give me something stronger." Sam grasps the leather chair in front of him, clearly uncomfortable with the question he's asking.

"No, I'm sorry Sam. Are you having nightmares?"

"Oh yeah, just some war stuff." He brushes it aside. "Uh, never mind. Good luck." And he quickly leaves the room.

"Yeah, ok." I say to the closed door. I decide to let him off the hook; Sam needs to come to someone in his own time.

Trailing my fingers along the lacquered wood, they come to rest on my notebook. I flip through the pages, until I land on notes on a patient. Regret fills my chest, like a bubble just waiting to pop. I plop down on my desk chair, feeling tears welling up in my eyes. I haven't thought about this in so long. My chest feels restricted and I try to calm myself. Being upset will not help anyone.

When a knock sounds at the door, I quickly shut my notebook. "Come in," I call. Bucky opens the door slowly. "Hi, Mr. Barnes!"

"Hi." He replies simply. I sit down on one of the leather chairs and Bucky does the same.

I honestly don't think I will ever get accustomed to this place. The white of the chairs, of the whole compound, disturbingly offsets the turpitude of this refuge. Me and Bucky sit here in the heavenly white; wrapped in the colors of angles. But all we do is leak out blood and tears onto the very seats that could be our salvation. White feigns cleanliness, when really it only reflects our defilement. What vile things will be said in these chairs? What horrid acts and admittances will soak through their putrid and fake facade? Oh the oxymorons that abound just because of white chairs.

"So, how did you like the music?" I want to laugh out loud at such a stupid question, but if Bucky were to know my true thoughts, I think he would up and leave.

"Fine." Bucky shifts uncomfortably in his chair, and ends in a stiffly proper position. The bright sunlight filters into the room, giving the room a dreamy quality. His cool blue eyes look out the glass, never glancing at me.

I decide to slowly ease into the questions and bring him to trust me. The plan is to go easy on Bucky today. I ask, "Who was your favorite singer back in the forties?"

Bucky just shrugs his shoulders.

"Do you not remember?"

He huffs, then says, "If I did, what would be the point in telling you?"

"Because I asked." I sass.

Bucky's walls are up, and he's trying to distract. Obviously, if I asked him the touchy but important questions, he wouldn't respond. So I persist.

I lean forward in my seat. "Look, please trust me. It is all a process that will take time. Believe me, I have a Ph.D in it."

"I don't see how telling you about private things is going to help." Bucky mumbles.

"But what you did didn't just affect you, Mr. Barnes. It hurt a lot of other people too!" The words came out of my mouth so formed, but as soon as I said them, I realized they stung.

I struggle to push something else out of my mouth, something to make up for the stupidity. All I do is gape. And Bucky just sits there for a moment, eyes pointed my way, but not into my eyes. Then he says in a harsh whisper that _drips_ pain, "Don't you think I know that?"

Tears well in my eyes, and I squeak out, "I- I, yes but-"

Bucky stands from his chair. He's about to walk out the door, when he turns to me and mumbles, "And I disgust myself every _day_ because of that _."_ The door bangs shut.

I sit there, in a state of shock, and wait for what seems like thirty minutes. But it's really only thirty seconds. My throat is so tight I can't breath. I burst through the door, and run as fast as my feet will carry me to the nearest bathroom.

My body slides down the door, and I dissolve into tears. _How could I say that?_ I knew it was trouble when I got upset looking at my notebook. I let my own personal feelings melt in with what I was telling Bucky. It had just been so long since I had looked or thought about those notes. And keeping those feeling pent up all this time has not helped.

All the days I spent with those child soldiers… And I freaking slip up now. Of course, when I was saying it, I thought I was simply following the procedure of addressing the problems simply; to fully come to grips with what has been done.

But this is no child, and no standard procedure _whatsoever_ will apply to Bucky. That's obvious now. And I knew it before, but I am just too inexperienced and stupid, so it slipped. Now my mistake has cost me whatever good favor I might have held with Bucky.

I try to wipe the tears away, but they keep coming. So I just keep wiping the salty droplets with a piece of toilet paper until my under eyes burn. When I deem myself appropriate to walk out, I cautiously peek out the door, checking to make sure nobody is there. With a brisk pace, I walk down the hall, trying to avoid any social interactions. Not only because of my red face, but the fact that they all still think I'm in session with Bucky.

I'm so close to my room, when Wanda opens her door. She seems to have been getting her phone, but when she spots me, my fake smile doesn't trick her. "Ella, what happened?" Wanda's face is full of concern.

"Oh, nothing. Just stopped the session short," I lie.

Her eyebrows raise, and she grabs my arm, pulling me inside her room. "What is it?"

And then I burst into tears all over again. It's like that way when you think you have yourself under control, until someone asks in such a sweet way, that your fortitude crumbles in a second.

I manage to get out, my voice shaky, "I was so, so, stupid. I thought I could help him, but I've already failed!" I feel like a five year old, sitting on Wanda's bed, her hand gently rubbing my back, but it feels good to let it out.

"You haven't fail-" But I interrupted her, saying, "I made things worse!" Something deep inside me urges me to tell her why. To share with her the one thing that each of us keeps down inside of us: our darkest secret.

I shiver, a chill running down my back, then start. "When I first began working with patients on my own, I thought it wouldn't be too difficult." I try to calm my voice by swallowing hard and blowing my nose. "I had had to perform my residency before I could treat them on my own, but still saw some awful things. But it was never my patient; it never deeply affected me. But when I met my first patient, I made a wrong assocation of them. She seemed so normal, like nothing was wrong." My voice squeaks and still quivers. "So we talked together about her family: her dad and mom. And she seemed like such an easy case; so normal. But I missed _every single sign_. She killed herself after our third session. The girl was only seventeen."

Wanda stays quiet. So, I continue. "It was my fault!" I cover my face with my hands. "Her father had been sexually abusing her, and I didn't even see it because I was to brash and overconfident. Now, I have done the same to Bucky. And I let my feelings of regret mix in with what I was saying to him. Every chance I had to help one of those children in the refugee camp, was just trying to make up for that girl. Like trying to fill a leaking cup, it just never gets full. And this could have been my one redeeming chance. But I blew it like a freaking idiot!"

"No, no," Wanda soothes. "It's not too late, Ella." She takes my face in her hand. "You have done so much good, how could you possibly think that that one incident degrades every good thing you've done since? You were just young, naive, just beginning…" Wanda trails off, and looks towards the wall.

"You need to go back to him." Wanda says when she refocuses. "But-" I start, until she interrupts me.

"No buts. Go apologize and tell him why it happened. If anyone will understand your regret, it is Bucky."

/ (omni POV)

Bucky stands on the same veranda Wanda and Clint sat a night ago. Looking over the expanse of dense jungle, where misty mountains can be seen in the background and a mist hangs around you, is the only thing that can make Bucky feel a little relieved.

Sitting down and doing nothing, reminds him of all those hours he spent locked down in a chair, being read those horrid words, with no chance of escape. Sleeping- well, it can't really be called sleeping when Bucky is constantly being awakon by realistic nightmares. And any type of practice fighting would remind him of those days when he was an assassin; when he brought Steve's friends down into the miserable mud.

So The Winter Soldier stands on the veranda, trying to feel free, even though he knows he's not. All Bucky wants to do right now is stay numb to those feelings of regret. Sometimes, though, he takes his box of remorse and airs it out. Why? Because sometimes you just want to _feel_ something, and those dark emotions are all you have. Like the only way to lubricate yourself from the pain is to absorb it. And so Bucky keeps his pain somewhere easily accessible.

But right now, Bucky is suppressing everything. Before, he had tried to combine the pain with new life. Although, seeing as that didn't work, he's back to square one.

The glass door behind Bucky slides open. Steve walks out onto the balcony. "What are you doing out here, Buck?" He asks.

"Needed some air."

Steve leans onto the smooth edge of the rail, and looks out over the jungle. "So it didn't go well?" Steve asks, already knowing the answer.

"I don't want to talk about it."

Steve knows not to push it, so instead he quietly stands by his comrade, his best friend. They just stand, each deep in their own thoughts. After a substantial amount of time has past, Bucky takes a small breath.

"Why, Steve? Why?"

Steve looks curiously at Bucky, confused by the question. "Why what?"

"She was right. It just-" Bucky pounds his head with his palm, as if trying to sort everything out in his jumbled brain. "All of you and your friends became fugitives because of me, and what did I ever do but kill all those people, Steve?" Bucky isn't looking for some kind of validation, he actually wants to know.

"It wasn't you, Buck! It was Hydra; they used you. Stop blaming yourself." Steve tries to pat Bucky on the back, but Bucky backs away, looking at Steve indignantly.

"But I did it! All of it. And when I tried to stay away from everything, to keep away so I wouldn't hurt anybody, the government still came after me. And now, because of all the bad things I've done, I can't live a normal life!"

"And all I wanted" Bucky continues, "was to be in control for _once_ in seventy years, but those words still haunted me. And Ella was right: everything I have ever done hurts the people around me." Bucky looks away from Steve's pained face, running his fingers gruffly through his hair. "So that's what I was asking you Steve. Why even bother with someone who should have just killed themselves when they had the chance?"

It takes Steve a moment to recuperate from Bucky's words but, with a quick intake of breath and conviction, he says, "Because you are the only reason I ever did anything Bucky; my world ended when I thought you died and began when I found out you were alive. Why do you think I became Captain America? To save you from Hydra. And I don't regret that one _moment_." Steve steps up close to Bucky. "I don't know why you didn't end it either Bucky. But I know that if you had done something like 'that'," Steve can't even say the words, otherwise be choked, "then every part of my world would come crashing down, and I would be right behind you, taking my own life."

And Bucky knows deep down why he never committed suicide: Because of Steve. He doesn't know whether it's because he knew that Steve would follow in his terrible fate. Or if it was the possibility of being able to see Steve's once so familiar face again. That everything that was once jumbled up would fall back into place again, and he could somehow live a normal live. But that seems like some lurid fantasy now.

Steve's words are still ringing in Bucky's ears, trying to find somewhere to stick instead of bouncing around in his head. He begins to break down, clutching Steve's shoulder. A piteous tear runs down his scruffy cheek. "I didn't want you to see me like this," Bucky whispers. "I just wanted to remember… and try to live."

Steve knows what Bucky is saying despite it being a vague statement. Because Steve had seen Bucky's apartment; had seen him with his metal arm in a vice, coming out of Hydra's control. Grabbing Bucky and holding him upright, Steve says, "We'll have to help each other survive. Maybe one day we can finally _live._ "

/

I walk slowly towards Bucky's room, but my feet seem to be sticking to the ground. _Inhale, exhale_. With some of the butterflies calmed in my stomach, I slowly open the door. The room inside is dark, but a small shaft of bright sunlight shines through a crack in the curtains. Nobody is here.

I sulk around the room, knocking on the bathroom door, and throwing back the covers, just in case Bucky maybe got tangled up in these messy sheets and can't get out. But he isn't here. I head back down the hall, peeking into doorways, but end up being drawn into the living area. There I see Sam, Steve, and Bucky watching a nature documentary, and downing a few beers.

I really don't want to disturb them, and make my plea to Bucky that much more conspicuous. But I have to. So I slide half my body into the room, the other half being shielded by the door. They don't hear the door, considering Sam is laughing his head off at the otters on the TV. I give a small cough, and all their heads turn to me.

Bucky's large eyes show he is surprised to see me, but both Sam and Steve are giving me looks that seem to say "it's about time". I say quietly, my words fading through the large room, "Can I talk to you, Mr. Barnes?"

Bucky nods his head and gets off the couch, placing his beer on the coffee table before he walks out. I hold the door open for him, my nerves building up once the door behind me so were alone in the large hallway, I sigh. "Um," I start, as brilliant as ever. "Sorry to interrupt y'all-"

"It's fine," Bucky interrupts, running his hand through his messy brown hair.

"I just want to say I'm sorry. It was so stupid of-" When Bucky opens his mouth, I immediately hold up a finger to quiet him. "I shouldn't have said what I did. Whether or not it was true doesn't matter. And, I don't want to give excuses, but I feel you should know why I said such an unnecessary and idiotic thing."

I stop and prepare myself. Bucky looks at me with an expectant and curious look. "Before you came to see me, I had just looked over some old notes about a patient of mine. I, um, messed up when I was accessing her. And, she killed herself." I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "I was emotional. And I spoke about myself when I said that your actions affect those around you. Because it is what I constantly tell myself."

Understanding paints Bucky's face as he looks into my eyes, and relief floods my body. "Will you forgive me?" I ask.

Surprised, Bucky responds, "There is nothing to apologize for. So, yes."

And I don't know what compels me to do it, but I stand there for a moment, and then wrap my arms around him in a hug. Bucky stumbles back, startled, holding himself steady with the wall. He takes a moment before wrapping his one muscular arm around my waist, his face nuzzling into my neck. I can feel his warm breath. It sends shivers down my spine; the good kind.

And in that moment, warmth spreads through my body. Being held there in Bucky's arm, I feel safe. Like I have finally found someone who understands. And someone who, despite needing help themselves, might be able to guide me. Since I am always the therapist it feels like my responsibility to be strong; that I shouldn't receive help because I am giving it.

But with Bucky firm chest against me, I feel like ascendancy and healing might finally be coming.

/


	7. Chapter 7

**In honor of Captain America: Civil War coming out to DVD, here is a new chapter! Dedicated to the wonderful Gamerchic for her sweet comments that make my day. :)**

Chapter 7

"Dang." I say. All the empathy I posses goes out to Bucky.

"Yeah, I don't think I'll ever get them back," Bucky responds.

"Can't you call Stark?" I question.

Bucky lets out a scoff. "I doubt he would come all the way to Wakanda to return a few notebooks. But they were all I had, really." Bucky looks out the window. Rain is pouring down in sheets, and from time to time, the sky lights up with lightning. But it gives the room a cozy atmosphere for Bucky and I's first (not really, but the last one doesn't count) session together.

I let out a sigh. His notebooks containing a conglomeration of memories from the past would have been extremely helpful to have. But when the government got Bucky, they got them too. And Steve has no possible way to retrieve them. Although it's good knowing this, because that means part of this process is already underway. Normally, when treating PTSD, the person is supposed to write down their traumatic experiences. In this case, Bucky mainly wrote of memories from his past, not his worst ones. But it's something, at least. And it could help with any remaining memory loss.

I get up and walk to my desk. I open the lacquered drawer, and pull out a red hardcover notebook. Inside, the pages are clean and crisp, just waiting to be written on. "Here," I say, handing it to Bucky. He fingers it in his palm, and turns over some of it's pages. "Write in this if you remember anything new. Or if it's something old, too."

Bucky nods his head. There is no point in continue a conversation that would only make Bucky dejected. I decide to continue with our earlier conversation. "So. What is your favorite childhood memory?"

Bucky ponders that for a moment, and I can see his eyes glaze over. "It's kind of jumbled," He says quietly. After a minute or two, he inhales deeply. Bucky says, "When Steve and I were twelve- no." Bucky rubs his forehead with his fingers. "We were, we were.." He bounces his leg up in down in frustration, trying to sort the memory out. I just sit patiently. "Sixteen!" He says, with a little bit of enthusiasm. "Yeah, we were sixteen. And we were getting ice cream at Martha's Diner, which was by our apartment building. I was talking to some girls in the booth across from us, but Steve was just eating. Suddenly, a man burst through the door with a gun, and wanted the cashiers money. Steve, the idiot," Bucky says, shaking his head with fondness, "Hopped up from his seat, and raced towards the man from behind." A small smile forms on Bucky's lips. "Apparently, he had had a 'suspicion' that the gun wasn't loaded. But he was right, thank goodness, and Steve smacked that gun right out of that man hand! And then punched him. But Steve's fists were so small, I don't think it even left a bruise." Finally, Bucky lets out a small chuckle, and his eyes focus on me again.

Such pride can be seen in Bucky's expression. "I guess it's my favorite memory because Steve was the hero. And without the serum. Everybody clapped, and he even got his picture on the wall. But everyone finally saw Steve as more than a wimpy kid."

"And the heart of gold." He says quietly. I smile and say jokingly, "And I bet you threw yourself over the girls. For their safety, of course," I add with a laugh.

Bucky says, "Probably not. I was to distracted by Steve throwing himself at a gun."

And again I'm overwhelmed by the friendship Steve and Bucky share. It is obvious they share a brotherly bond; a tie that can't be broken by time or wear. Yet, Bucky had to live with Steve being thrown in front of a gun for months during the war. Surely Steve didn't mind; it probably gave him a sense of duty. But Bucky had to watch as his friend was put in danger dozens of time, and by people who only really respected Steve because of his costume.

"Makes sense," I agree thoughtfully.

The positive response Bucky has had to talking about his memories (despite the difficulties of remembering). And I really love listening to him speak of his childhood.

"When you were in Romania, did you remember all of this?" I ask.

"No. It was all- um- disordered. That's why I wrote the notebooks," Bucky mumbles.

"When did you remember?" I'm pretty sure I already know the answer, but it's important for Bucky to clear it himself.

"When Steve.. Um, got me. After Zemo," Bucky doesn't finish his sentence. Zemo. The fake psychologist/ usurper of the Avengers. I realize his hesitance to elaborate. I wasn't told everything that happened during their sort of civil war. But I can assume it wasn't pleasant.

"After that, it has slowly become more clear," Bucky concludes. I can tell the more we speak of recent events the more uncomfortable he becomes. So I steer the conversations from risky waters. I want him to have a favorable attitude towards our future discussions.

"Have you remembered any of your earliest memories? How did you and Steve meet?"

"Yeah," Bucky responds, nodding his head. "We lived in the same apartment building. When His family moved in, my mom brought them a cake to welcome them. I was so young, though. I don't really remember it. But from that moment on, I came to see Steve everyday."

Bucky's eyes hold a sad and thoughtful gaze, and a small frown forms on his mouth. "I remember his mother, Sarah, and my mother, Willa, were close. Since my momma would bring me to Steve's apartment when we were young, she talked with Sarah a lot. It was devastating to use all when she died."

"How did Steve take it?" I ask. Despite this session being about Bucky, his and Steve lives and emotions are so intertwined that one affects the other. If I'm to know how Bucky is feeling, it's imperative to know how Steve was feeling. Which, thankfully, makes my job easier. Bucky can translate his emotions through Steve's. It is easier for Bucky to talk about his emotions that way.

"Holed himself up in his room a few days, but I forced him out. We help each other out." I noticed he used the present tense. Steve is playing a big part in Bucky's recovery. Hopefully he knows that.

Bucky shifts in his chair, beginning to become more relaxed. He slouches slightly as the session wears on. We talk more about his childhood, and early teens. From high school drama and first dates, to snowball fights and swimming at his grandmother's lake house, his best moments come out like a ray of sunshine. Bucky laughs and I join in as I hear more about the blind dates Bucky set Steve up with. Apparently one of the girls was a friend of a friend, who happened to be a midget with a foot fetish. "That one was hilarious," Bucky laughed out.

And so I keep it light. Thus, when I end the session, Bucky seems to have a positive outlook on future sessions. Only my homework seems to bother him.

"I want you to write your worst childhood memory," I say, watching his face. He just nods sullenly. "You don't have to be very descriptive, just write out. The best you can about how you felt."

I gently wrap my hand around his, and chills go up my spine as his warm skin touches mine. Looking into his crystal blue eyes, I say softly, "Thank you for giving me another chance."

"Thank you for helping me." And Bucky cracks out an adorable grin and says, "It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be."

/

"Oh _gosh_ , no," I say demurely.

"Come on, you know you want it," Sam smiles mischievously. "It's the most delicious thing you will ever taste." Sam looks behind him to the dining room, where Steve and Wanda sit, watching us amusedly. "Steve, back me up here! What doesn't sound delicious about hamburger meat and cheese on a donut and then fried to perfection? Answer: nothing!"

I make an exaggerated gagging noise. "Thanks, but I don't really want to get diabetes in one night. How about…" I make a small humming noise. "Breakfast for dinner!"

Sam snorts, and mumbles something like, "that's the stupidest thing I have ever heard". But Scott walks in, with his amazing hair, at that moment. He exclaims, "Brilliant! I'm actually an expert pancake maker."

Clint is following him and exclaims, "Dude. I'd make better waffles than your pancakes any day."

"It's on." Scott declares, immediately grabbing a bowl next to Sam. Clint scuffles off to the other side of the kitchen, scrambling to find his own supplies. While they begin making some of the food, I glance around the room. Everyone is here but Bucky.

I actually set up tonight's entertainment (or call it what you will). We are going to eat, play some games, then watch a movie. And it's all for Bucky. But I'm pretty sure everyone here needs it. One of the best thing you can do when you have a patient with PTSD is fun things. When your life is consumed by terrors and thoughts of the past, it seems nonsensical to actually enjoy life. But truly overcome your post traumatic stress, you have to do normal things. It is extremely important that Bucky be here.

"Hey, has anyone seen Bucky?" I ask.

I turn around to Steve, who helped plan this evening. He answers, "I think he's coming. He was listening to some of that music you gave him." I laugh lightly, trusting Steve is right. I then turn back to Sam. Fake agitation covers his face, and I say with in a mocking tone, "Aww, sorry you didn't get the chance to kill us today. But hey, you still might have a chance with this bacon." I grab the package of bacon and get off my stool. There is a frying pan in the cabinet. As soon as I pull it out, I smile and say, "Frying pans! Who knew right?"

There is never a bad time to quote Disney.

I burst into hysteric giggles at my own joke right as Bucky enters the room. "That'd probably be my weapon if I was a superhero: a frying pan." I laugh some more, and Bucky raises his eyebrows. Nobody else is laughing, except I think I heard Clint chuckle. "Seriously?" I say, waving the pan in an exasperating way. "None of you have watched Tangled?" My statement is met with blank stares.

"Whats a Tangled?" Bucky asks, looking around him.

"Only one of the most amazing Disney princess movies of all time. And the movie we are going to watch tonight," I affirm.

"Nuh uh," Declares Sam. I begin laying down the pieces of bacon on the sizzling pan. "I'm not watching a princess movie. Let's watch American Sniper."

For a moment I contemplate the idea, but then a little panic attack zings through my body as I think of Bucky. He was a sniper too. I catch Sam's eye, trying to give him a nonverbal clue. When understanding dawns, he glances at the floor and then Bucky's face. I can tell Bucky is trying to seem oblivious to the unspoken words, but the room has grown quiet and it's hard to ignore the silence. It's weird that something so simple as mentioning a sniper in Bucky's presence can have such an impact. They still treat him as delicate.

This might not be a bad thing. And the more I think it, the more I realize what they all went through to get Bucky for Steve. To protect him. If I fail in helping Bucky, then all they did was for naught. So it's no wonder they treat him like he's fragile; they don't want to ruin everything they've worked for. Not only that, but for Steve. And Bucky; affection is also growing for the Winter Soldier. The impact of what I do keeps on hitting me like I load of bricks. I hold these people's lives in my hands. Bucky shifts uncomfortably, and Scott thankfully breaks the soundless space.

With flour on his shirt, and a whisk in hand, he says, "No, we have to watch Robocop! Wait, or Transformers. No! Fast and Furious 3!" Scott stands there, whisking like a madman, and contemplating his selection of horrible movie choices.

Sam looks at him indignantly. "Tasteless," He mutters, shaking his head imperiously.

Steve and Wanda have stayed silent the entire time, as well as Bucky. They all just look amused. "What do you think Wanda?" I ask.

She folds her hands beneath her chin and considers the question. "Pride and Prejudice," Wanda says dreamily. And immediately I'm in the mood for a romance.

In unison, Sam, Clint, and Scott yell, "No!" I let out a groan. Bickering breaks out among the hero's. And while it seems to be a heated argument, I can tell they are all incredibly grateful to be arguing about something so normal. Something controllable. Nobody really cares; they just want to feel like they can make an everyday choice. A decision that will not affect the outcome of lives, or even, the world. Maybe.

After the Socovain Accords and the dissembling of the Avengers, I'm sure picking a movie feels like the silliest thing in the world. But nobody acts like it is.

"OK. How about this: We let Steve and Bucky decide," I say. Everybody quiets down and looks expectantly at the two.

"I haven't watched many movies," Bucky says. Steve adds, "Me neither, but you know," He stands up and walks out of the dining room to sit at the island by Bucky, "There was this really great movie I saw the other day. Max." His face is so innocent and sincere.

Sam bursts into hysterical laughter. Clint looks confused and asks, "What is that?" Scott is staring at Steve with a questioning look as he grabs the griddle.

Sam gasps out between laughs, "It's a dog movie I tricked him into watching." He bursts out in laughter again. Steve looks offended. "You didn't trick me. Buck, it has this dog who was in war, and then helped these kids stop these bad guys." I can't help the giggle that escapes my lips, and Wanda also has a sly grin on her face. Scott and Clint look dubious.

"Please tell me we are not watching that, Bucky," Scott pleads. Bucky seems intrigued by Steve's notion of 'Max', but before he complies with Steve's wishes, I exclaim, "How about Frozen?!"

"Noooo!" Clint shouts.

Bucky and Steve look interested, but Clint clears up, "And no, you two, it's not about frozen soldiers." Steve is clearly disappointed. I elaborate, "Ok, but it has great music!"

Clint comes and takes me by the arms, whispering ominously, "If I have to listen to 'Let it Go' on more time, I'll go all Merida on you." I look right at him with a smile, and say, my mouth pointed towards the Avengers. "It's settled then. We are watching Frozen."

Clint backs away. He mumbles under his breath, "Just be glad that I can't turn you into a bear." Oh goodness.

As I continue to watch the bacon cook, and Clint finishes his waffle batter, Bucky comes and leans on the counter near me. He watches the sizzling fat, and mumbles, "My mom used to make the best bacon." Everybody else is still talking about stuff behind us, but I glance around and see Steve staring at the two of us.

I'm not sure quite how to respond. "It's hard to beat the old fashion cooks. Here," I grab a finished piece off the plate and give it to Bucky. It's still warm. "Try this and see if I came anywhere close." He takes a bite, and closes his eyes, savoring the flavor. Bucky turns around to Steve, "Ella might have even beat your mom!" I laugh at his compliment, saying it's mainly the nice meat. Bucky shakes his head. "You're just a brilliant cook."

I can feel a blush rising in my cheeks, and quickly look away. I put the rest of the bacon on the plate and put the pan in the sink. Bucky is still munching on the bacon, now discussing favorite foods with Steve. Relief flushes over me. I don't want him to see my rose red cheeks.

Scott is almost done with his pancakes, and Clint with his waffles. I grab some orange juice out of the fridge and carry the prepared food to the table. Soon everyone is sitting around steaming pancakes and waffles now drowned in syrup.

Before we dig in, I stop them. "Let's say grace." Scott looks up from where he has a pancake shoved in his mouth, and quickly chews. I ask Steve, "Will you pray for us?" He solemnly nods his head and closes his eyes. Everybody else does the same. Steve's strong voice fills the room.

"Dear Lord." He sighs. I can only guess how long it's been since he's prayed. And after everything he's been through, I'm not surprised if it's hard to force the words. But Steve continues, nonetheless. "We have all been through so much, but it has always turned out ok. It could be much worse. But instead we all sit here together about to eat pancakes and waffles. So, thank you," Steve mumbles. "Uh, amen."

Everybody quietly says amen. I look up at Steve and give him a small smile. Religion has been such an important part of my life, and praying is a necessity. I know the Avengers probably haven't thought about religion in a while, and I certainly don't want to push it. A sort of solemness fills the room, as if now this food is sacred. It is that unexplainable draw that a supernatural being can hold. To think that someone is watching over you can be an electrifying but also fearful experience. I can still see Wanda's hands folded tightly.

After staring at our plates for several moments, Scott begins slowly shoving his food into his mouth. It prompts everyone to do the same. Clint exclaims, "Wait! What's better: the pancakes or my waffles?"

Everyone laughs, and exclaims, "The pancakes!" Clint moans and shoves another of his waffles in his mouth. Scott's pancakes really are delicious: light, fluffy, and golden brown; they seem to melt on my tongue.

Hearty conversation ensues, and we all dump our plates in the sink. We leave the mess for later, everybody to happy to worry about washing dishes. Scott starts discussing games. Of course, another argument is brought up, until I quiet Sam's talk of Monopoly with, "Apples to Apples." Clint does a sarcastic laugh, and says, "Oh, this is going to be good."

Everybody mumbles their assent and Bucky looks confused. "Don't worry buddy," Says Steve, slapping Bucky on the back, "You'll find out soon enough." We all settle around the large coffee table in the dimly lit living room. The rain is still pouring heavily outside, and thunder is randomly spread through our talking. Two lamps are turned on and cast shadows and a yellow glow around the room. It feels incredibly cozy. Sam sits on the floor with Wanda. Bucky, Steve, and I sit on one couch, with Clint and Scott on another.

"Ok," I say, taking the box of cards in front of me and dispersing seven red cards to each player. "Does everyone know how to play?"

Most nod, but Bucky and Wanda shake their heads. "So, I'm going to place a green card down." I place a green card on the table to show them. Bucky and Wanda lean forward to read it. "Happy," I say. "Then you pick one of your red cards that correspondes this one." I tap my finger on the green card. "It can either make sense or be funny. And each person gets to be the Judge. They pick which red card they like the best. Got it?" Bucky and Wanda nod their heads.

Everybody sweeps up their cards, glancing at them. Scott chuckles ominously. Sam grimaces and exclaims, "Why do I always get only food cards?!" Everybody bursts out laughing, and so the game begins.

Steve's turn to judge is first, and he turns over a green card that says, "Harry". I glance at my cards. Aliens, a bad haircut, casinos, fuzz, Jennifer Lopez, love letters, and midlife crises. Interesting. None of these look very appealing for 'Harry'. I end up picking fuzz, just because it makes sense.

When six cards lay on the middle of the table, Steve scoops them up. He goes over them, looking bemused. When he looks up, he asks, "Whats Harry Potter?" Me, Sam, Clint, and Scott burst into laughter, and I can literally feel my six pack coming in. "Harry- and Harry Potter," I gasp out. "Thats genius."

"Thank you, thank you," Clint says, standing up and waving his hand like a queen. Steve still looks confused, and so does Bucky. "Nice, Clint," I congratulate. Steve just picks it at our insistence.

Next is my turn, and Bucky has a small grin on his face. Whenever Bucky smiles it's like pure magic. Butterfly's circle in my stomach as I watch him pick his card. His smiles are so rare, but so incredible.

When Bucky looks up at me, I realize I've been staring. He's still grinning slightly. A blush leaps onto my cheeks, and I quickly gather up the cards on the table. The word is "Stupid". I scan the cards, trying to seem occupied. I immediately say, "Oh no." Bucky is smirking at Sam, and I can see trouble brewing. "Read them out loud," He insists. And I can't refuse. "Canada." A few snickers go around the room. Then I read out, "Birds," and the whole room goes off.

Sam stands up and says, "OH NO YOU DIDN'T. WHO DID IT, WHO DID IT?!" When Clint sees Bucky's grin, he goes after Bucky in a playfully agitated tackle. Sam shouts as they fall to the ground, Bucky at a disadvantage because of his arm, "Birds are amazing! And not only did you offend me, you offended Redwing!" Sam yells. When Bucky finally manages to throw Clint off of him, everyone is laughing.

Bucky is chuckling slightly and has a big and flustered smile on his square face. A warm glow fills me as I realize my plan is working. He is actually enjoying himself. And not only that, but everyone else is, too. Once as the laughter dies down, with everyone occasionally letting out a sporadic chuckle, I finish reading the rest of the cards.

The last one is, "Insects". Immediately Scott jumps up and says, "Who said that!" I think he expected a more enthusiastic response. Instead, Steve raises his hand slowly. With a look of indignation, Scott plops onto his seat. "And to think I once admired you," He quietly mumbles.

The game is now in full swing, and Clint ends up winning. Thanks to his sarcasm skills, I suppose. Now we are all starving, thanks to all that laughing. I get up to make some popcorn. Wanda finds the movie, and presses play once as I've sat down. As I try to find a seat on one of the two couches, Bucky smiles at me and pats the leather next to him. A small grin creeps onto my face as I sit next to the Winter Soldier.

It makes me happy to see that Bucky is warming up to me. I'm not sure if he is just trying to be polite, but I get the sense that he genuinely likes me. Honestly, everybody here has been so welcoming. I know I've never been through what they have, and hopefully never will, but there is a sense of connection despite it. I thought I would be an outsider. Normally, whenever social situation occur, I'm worried to be out of place; that I'm intruding on the set social order. But these broken heroes have a allowed a broken mender to come into their compound.

So as Frozen starts, I'm not ashamed to sing loudly. I let my joy of relief wash over me, as well as a sense of happiness. And Clint hesitantly joins in. After much prodding from me, of course.

But I'm also sorely aware of the enormous weight on my shoulders. I want Bucky to be better. Not just because he's my patient. But because I see a little part of myself in him. An outsider. Someone who is broken. And there is something inside me that needs to know he can be helped.

/


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry for the late chapter, but I unfortunately lost the first document I wrote. I literally felt numb inside after I realized I couldn't retrieve it. So I had to rewrite the entire thing. But here it is! Please enjoy!**

Chapter 8

"On your left," Bucky pants, running slowly on the treadmill to my left.

I laugh and say, "Why are you panting? You're barely moving!"

"To many of Scott's pancakes," He says with a small smile.

"To true," I say, feeling my own breath beginning to quicken.

The gym is large, but not large enough to run around. Bucky and I have been reduced to treadmills. Because of Bucky's arm, though, he is forced to take it slow, otherwise lose his balance. I am just glad to have someone to run with.

To my delight, over the past week and a half Bucky and I have bonded. We constantly talk, sit next to each other, exercise, and eat way too many of Scott's pancakes. I was slightly surprised that we had gotten so close. Usually it can be awkward seeing and talking to someone who you've shared so many personal things with, despite it maybe being a bonding experience. It's like pouring out your soul to a stranger, and then expecting not to be embarrassed. Bucky and I usually meander around for awhile, deep in thought, then we are back to chatting.

It is so refreshing to have the weight of my past mistakes known. Despite my feeling self conscious sometimes, it feels good that it is not being kept shrouded in the dark parts of my heart. And since Bucky is one of the only ones who know, it bonds us even more. We both know each other's secrets. My concern is that once we actually reach the hard stuff, a stiff relationship will develop between us.

For now, Bucky even asks questions about my life and childhood. Thats a thing patients have never asked about: me. Bucky seems to generally care, which feels wonderful since I try to make it a habit never to talk about myself.

A warm glow fills me when I think of how Bucky and I have gotten closer; the more I get to know him, the more I realize I like him. Yet, I am concerned of him and Steve. They have been growing apart ever so slightly. I can feel a tension in the air, sometimes, when they're talking to each other. Steve and Bucky always seemed like an inseparable pair.

I have no idea why this tension is occurring until one day I hear them talking in the kitchen. Quietly slipping behind the white door frame, I get as close to the entryway as I dare. For someone who highly disapproves of eavesdropping, I seem to be making a habit of it.

"I don't like those anymore," Bucky says in a tone that indicates slight annoyance.

"Oh come on," I hear Steve say, teasingly. "You used to love these!"

"I said I don't anymore," Bucky mumbles. I can hear the screech of a stool against the sleek floors. I back away from the door, preparing to run, when Steve says, "What is it Bucky?" He seems to sense something else is amiss.

"Nothing," Bucky mumbles again.

"Buck, you can tell me anything," I hear Steve insist.

The sigh of a man who is finally asked the right question fills the air. "I'm not the same person I was, Steve." Bucky just let's it out simply. "I don't think I will ever be that man again. We have past together, and the more I talk with Ella, the more I realize that I've changed. We have both changed. There is no way to go back in time, and I don't want us to try to believe that things can go back to the way things were."

He pauses. Bucky speaks in a soft, but clear tone. "I'm not going to be the same Steve. I just want you to understand that. I owe you more than I can say, and I don't want you to feel like you still owe it to me to be my friend. But I still want you to be," Bucky finishes lamely.

Steve doesn't speak for a moment, most likely still trying to absorb Bucky's words. I can just imagine Steve grabbing Bucky's shoulder. "You are the only family I have. Through thick and thin, we have always been there for each other. I wouldn't care if you even became a robot, I would still fight for you. Still love you."

Then I feel intrusive. Dang my curiosity. I run as quietly and quickly as I can to my office. I slam the door curly behind me. It had felt like such a private moment… A sick feeling sits in the pit of my stomach: guilt. There is some relief in me that Steve and Bucky figured things out, although. It makes so much more sense now.

After Hydra took Bucky, there is no way he could stay the same. Everyone here on the compound knows Bucky only after the forties. Except for Steve. It makes me wonder as to whether having Steve on the compound was adding pressure to Bucky to be the old person he was. The man I've heard was quite the charmer.

That's absolutely ludicrous. Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by my own stupidity. Steve might be the only person who can help Bucky overcome his PTSD.

I walk over to my desk and grab out my notebook, trying to pretend I didn't just overhear an ultra private conversation. A knock absorbs into the walls and I call, "Come in." Bucky opens the door and closes it gently behind him. My heart leaps for several reasons. Possibly because I feel like I just committed murder, and partially because Bucky looks incredibly handsome. His dark blue cotton shirt clings tightly to his strong arm and abs. But my eyes are instantly drawn to his crystal orbs, which are brought out by the blue, gazing at me. I quickly look away.

I go sit, and immediately my cheeks redden as the chair makes a dilapidated farting sound. Smooth. Bucky, the sauve clumsy one, does the same. The chair seems to like him, evident by the way it holds his weight firmly.

Pushing back any thoughts that would immediately point Bucky towards my sins, I ask, "So, I thought we should move on from childhood memories, onto the war." I said it slowly, as to test the waters. Bucky merely nods his head in humble acceptance.

I sigh ever so slightly. "What regiment were you in?" We'll keep this simple, working our way up. I don't want to interrupt our familiarity.

"The 107th Infantry." A hint of pride is evident in Bucky's voice, and he sits up ever so slightly.

"And how was that? The camp, I mean. Was it weird being in a war zone instead of bustling Brooklyn?" I smile a little.

"I guess." Bucky shrugs his shoulders. "It's what I expected it to be. The food was terrible. The beds were uncomfortable, but my bed back at home wasn't much better."

I realize at that moment that perhaps this is part of the reason why Bucky always has a hard time sleeping. When Hydra had him, I'm sure he only had a cot to sleep on when he was out of cryo. Maybe I should talk to Steve about it. But know is the time for Bucky's session.

"Did you miss home?" The answer is obvious, but still a necessary one to ask.

"I missed Steve. All I could think as I was fighting those Nazi was how much Steve would have given to be there. It was sort of a relief that he wasn't, because I'm sure he would have died if he did." It's a relief to me when I hear the fondness in Bucky's voice.

But then a realization strikes me. What if Steve hadn't joined the army? Sure, he wouldn't have become Captain America and beaten Red Skull, so there would have been obvious negatives. When a man has been tortured as much as Bucky has, although, it can be hard to see reason. I know Bucky does, but it wouldn't surprise me if there was a hint of anger deep down. If Steve had never joined the army, Bucky would never have become the Winter Soldier.

It takes everything in me not to ask Bucky if he is angry. After a few years of Psychology, you have to train yourself to not ask some question right out, especially ones where the person themselves might not even know their feelings.

After trying for several moments to piece together an appropriate sentence, I ask cautiously, "Do you think Steve coming into the army was a good thing?"

"I didn't know he had until he rescued me from that Hydra base. And then he was huge, more capable than me." I don't sense any anger, just confusion at my question. Bucky's eyebrows are lifted a little, and I can see the perplexment in his eyes.

Apparently that wasn't the right way to phrase the question. So I try again. "Was it weird not being the leader, or at least the stronger man?" I couldn't think of any way to bring up the question, so I'm hoping one will lead to another.

"Steve was always the stronger man, at least in heart. He was meant to be a leader."

"Did you think he was a capable leader of the Howling Commandos?" I am running out of questions to bring it up, and patience.

"Sure," Bucky says. "He saved the world. He defeated Hydra and became a hero. Do you think I'm jealous of Steve?" Bucky becomes defensive, sitting up in his seat. He sounds upset.

"No! I want to understand, Bucky." Because there is no other way to say this, I decide to be honest. Bucky needs to confront his feelings. The only doubt in my mind is whether he can handle it. I just don't know, so I decide to say it gently. My arms spread open before me. "Is there no anger at Steve for leading you onto that train? If he hadn't come into the army to lead the Howling Commandos, you never would have fallen off that train, into Hydra's grips."

Bucky is completely still. He simply stares at me. Then, slowly, he stands. "I don't want to talk about this," Bucky said lowly.

Thankfully, I'm spared having to reply by Sam bursting into the room. His breath is hurried and he exclaims excitedly, "It's Stark."

Stark. Tony Stark. Oh, right. I hop up and run towards the door, and down the hall with Sam. I turn around, expecting Bucky to be racing beside me. But he's not there. The sick feeling in the bottom of my stomach grows more. Hopefully he is just startled because Stark was mentioned and not what I said to him. Perhaps I overstepped.

In an attempt to be more sensitive, as my job requires, I stop Sam. He jumps slightly as I grab his arm. "Sam, whats going on?"

"Look for yourself." I turn and see that we are right in front of the rec room doorway, which is open. Inside everyone solemnly stands, including T'Challa, around a cardboard box. Just staring at it. I'm sucked in, instantly drawn to the mystery that could be contained in this cardboard.

"What is that?" Everybody jerks around at Bucky's voice. His hand in gripped into a tight fist, and his jaw is clenched, attempting to control his emotions. T'Challa explains, "Stark called us and said he had something for you. He sent it to a post office in Romania and I had someone receive it. We scanned it and it appears to be something metal, but we do not believe it to be dangerous."

"Why didn't you tell me Tony called?" This question is directed specifically to Steve. He raises his hands in defense and says, "I wanted to make sure it was not a trick."

Bucky simply looks back at the box. He slowly moves towards it, like a deer cautiously moving through a forest. It is then that I realize there is a note atop the box. It is taped down with layers of masking tape and I stand by Bucky to read it.

 _For the old soldier- not you Steve. - Stark._

All of a sudden, Bucky rips the box open with all his force, an impressive feat considering his one arm. Everybody presses in, trying to see the object that sits lonely in the medium size box. "What the h*ll is that?" Scott asks.

T'Challa picks up the metal clamp. It is wide but not long, and a dark blue. After examining it for a moment, T'Challa presses something, and we all gasp. One by one, chucks of metal extend from the clamp. It slowly forms a tube, ending in small five tubes that extend like branches. A red star is on the upper side. An arm.

Nobody speaks until I say, "Why would he send an arm for Bucky?"

"It doesn't make any sense," Steve mumbles, shaking his head at the metal.

I look to Bucky. He just glares at the arm. "Are you going to wear it?"

He shakes his head. "I don't want anything to do with it," Bucky mumbles. "I want to be just me."

And with that, he leaves. I understand his sentiments. Bucky had others in charge of his own being, even his arm wasn't himself. Now, the opportunity to be wholly and completely himself lays before him.

But if Bucky is not going to accept Starks arm, then he need to just get used of having one. And so far, he hasn't been doing good. It is always evident in Bucky's gait that he is used to having a heavy weight on his left side. Ripping off car doors and fighting foes with a metal weight, and now being completely, is a terrible difference. Just the other day he underestimated how heavy a glass was, and it fell to the floor, breaking into shatters.

"Wait," I say to Bucky, running into the hall. I grab his shoulder, the one without the stub of cold metal, and say, "If you're not going to take the arm, you need to practice getting used to having one."

"I am," He insisted.

"No, no you're not," I say firmly. The best way for Bucky to regain is coordination would be fighting. It uses hand eye coordination skills. Even the way Bucky moves shows evidence of his many years of combat, thus it makes sense that his fundamental movements need to be changed on that base. If Steve could help him to rewire his brain to fight with one arm, I do believe it would help the rest of his movements. It could take months, though.

Bucky sighs. "What do you want me to do?"

"Hold that thought." I go back to the rec room, where I see Steve scanning Starks note over and over. "Steve," I call him to the side of the room. "Can you and Sam maybe do some combat with Bucky? To help him with his coordination," I further elaborate.

Steve says in a whisper, looking around at his fellow Avengers, "Are you sure he is ready for that? You saw how he reacted to Tony's arm."

I am honestly not sure. It seems as if I keep upsetting Bucky. It's not like I can blame it on him, either. My job is to calibre what he can take, not him dealing with whatever I say. But my gut instinct tells me he is ready. "I think he has been avoiding it in fear. Bucky needs to push himself. If it seems to much, you can quit it."

So, Bucky, Steve, and Sam head down to the gym. As Sam and Steve wrap their wrists, Bucky meanders around the padded and slightly elevated fighting area. "Here." Steve brings a cloth and begins wrapping it around Bucky's wrist. I can tell Bucky is uncomfortable with Steve having to help him like that.

Jumping on the mat, Steve squats into a fighting position. He proffers his fists. Bucky slowly goes into a poor stance. Steve takes the first swing. Being completely caught off guard, Bucky falls back with a thump onto the ground in an attempt to avoid Steve's fists.

Steve pulls Bucky up, and regains his fighting stance. Bucky looks slightly jumbled, but tries to regain intensity. He tries to focus. This time Steve lets him take the swing, but Steve ducks the punch. Instead, he wraps his bulging arms around Bucky's waist, pushing him down to the mat. Now down on the floor, they tussle and arms and legs are tangled together in a squirming heap. I hear both of them grunting, but it ends with Bucky being pinned to the ground with his arm held behind his back.

Steve tries over and over to figure out a fighting technique for Bucky, but nothing works. He just doesn't know how to work with Bucky's disability. All the hero's Steve works with have extra: extra strength, extra technique, or extra powers. Never someone without a part of them.

The problem is, Steve is treating it as a disadvantage. If he simply believed it as a new way of fighting, or even, an advantage, I do not believe he would be so frustrated. I can tell from both Steve and Bucky's defeated faces, neither thinks creating a new technique will be an easy task.

Steve is about to call for retrying a move which they have been repeating (trying to rewire it to fit Bucky's missing limb), when Bucky mumbles, "I'm done, Steve." He leaves the room.

I see Steve watching him go. Sadness fills his features, lining the lineaments of his serious face. The disappointment of failing his friend makes his form slump.

I don't see Bucky the rest of the evening. It's only at 11:00p.m., right before I go to bed, that a crinkled note is slipped beneath my bedroom door. I see Bucky's scribbled letters webbed across the paper.

 _I'm not angry at Steve. I don't think I ever could be._

 _But what you said is partially true. The moment Steve became Red Skulls enemy, I became a target. It was no accident Zola picked me as his lab rat for his super soldier serum. He just_ knew _that I would one day come back to fight Steve: that was an advantage he could not lose. We know that Steve would not have fought back. When he rescued me from the first Hydra base, Zola was already trying his brainwashing methods on me and injected me with a serum. The first one to work. After he saw us escaping the base, he knew he had his first successful soldier. Me. While Schmidt was Steve's enemy, Zola was mine._

 _I can hardly blame that on Steve. He didn't even know that they had used a serum on me. There so many pros and cons to what happen. If I hadn't had that serum when I fell from the train, I never would have survived. But I never would have fallen from that train if it wasn't for Steve. And on, and on, and on. Why place blame on Steve, when in reality it's all Hydra's fault?_

 _I try not to think of it, as there is nothing I can do. I have already done so much damage, why place any blame on Steve for what havoc Hydra and I caused? I'll just bury it with everything else._

Bucky is going to hide it. In a desperate attempt for ascendancy, he is going to bury his pain so deep into the ground, that I'm fearful of ever bringing it out. I don't want Bucky to be in pain because of his memories, but keeping them shut up will only make it worse.

I'm really going to have to grab my shovel and dig deep.

/


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

 _Total quiet. Red tendrils swirl, grasping their tender arms around a glowing object at its core. Glass shatters and then the explosion. The silence is broken. Millions of lives crack at their core and are torn to a heavenly place. Screams fill the air in a resounding wail. All is chaos. The broken lay on white pallets, warm blood melting into the fabric. A brown face fills the screen, imperfections close and sweat spread in little dots on their skin._

I shut the computer. It's too much, and my insides twist. Poor Wanda.

Scrolling through the slew of articles on the ipad does little to help.

 _Was it Barnes?_

 _Have the Avengers Abandoned us?_

 _Hide your kids: Wanda Maximoff may be loose_

These people have no idea what they are talking about.

I hadn't expected this tide of words and lies to overflow my screen. It was simple curiosity that drove me to look up "The Avengers". I hoped any blanks may be filled in. All I have found are burns.

Despite my better judgement, I look up Tony Stark. I want to see what these people are saying of him. I don't even bother looking up Steve. Its obvious what they would say.

I scroll through several articles on the civil war, where Tony is now, his work with the government, and gossip on his relationship with business mogul Pepper Potts. The screen lights up with so many scribbles that they begin to blur before my eyes.

After a while, I reach articles from weeks ago. One particular column talks of a convention where Stark had given away millions in grants to young genius'. I let out a scoff. This man- the one who tore the Avengers apart from the inside out- could be generous? What a good facade.

I click on it just to mock. I merely skim over the words until there is a clear picture of a white room. Funiture it blunt and everything is made from the same white material. Stark stands in front of it, with arms spread open before him. In his fingers dangling thick frame glasses. My interest sparks. I read:

 _Mr. Stark exhibited his own pet project at the convention: BARF. These simple looking glasses actually tap into the hippocampus to help redo traumatic memories. A 611 million dollar project, few people would be willing to fund it unless the now billionaire did it himself. The epitome of his message is showed through these glasses: Even if you're broke, you can now make anything you fancy!_

I immediately stop reading. It takes me a whole minute to entirely process the excitement. With a jump/gasp, I run out of one of the smaller rec rooms where I had been sitting (there are several computers and electronics for entertainment). My legs don't know what to do with all the energy and excitement running through me, so an odd skip and run commences.

"Steve!" I gasp. "Look at this." He is sitting at the desk in his room, and I place my tablet on the counter top. I point to the section. When Steve sees Stark, he stiffens, as if expecting anything to do with Stark must be trouble.

His eyes scan the page hurriedly. When we finishes, Steve asks, "So, what?"

"This Steve! This!" I point to the glasses on Stark's face. "Those glasses accesses the hippocampus to hyjak traumatic memories. This could be just what Bucky needs!" I try to stay calm, but I can tell exuberance just leaks from my voice.

Steve stares at Starks picture. He says slowly, "I don't think Stark would just lend us those."

I know Tony and Steve had their fight, but that metal arm must be proof that Stark still cares for the team. While I'm still uncertain if he's a jerk or not, I don't know him or his motivations. If he gave us those spectacles, I would definitely know then that he must not be a bad guy.

"Let me ask him. For you," I say. "Stark may feel less pressure if it's me who asked, but I would still be representing the team. Maybe it might be better to hear of Bucky's condition from someone who isn't prejudice. No offense," I add.

Gradually, Steve stands. With hands on the table, I can tell he is deeply in thought. "Do you really think it could work?" He must be repressing any hope.

"It could. The only thing is, it may not help permanently. What Bucky needs is long term. Those glasses will only be faking a memory, or so I think. I don't know if Bucky is going to respond well to me asking him questions about his past without crumbling or becoming uncooperative. So, to move on, this may be the only option."

Steve sighs. "Ok. It's worth a try. Call Stark, but if he says no, then we don't ask again. If he says yes, then we don't tell Bucky. Got it?" He looks me straight in the eye.

I say with conviction I never knew I had inside me, "Yes."

/

The floor under me is so smooth that I want to reach down and pet it. Maybe it will help calm me. I realize I left the door open and close the partial glass, sheen door. It closes without a noise. Then I quickly sit near the large glass window, plopping onto the smooth, white floor.

The phone is also glossy in my hand. It's a simple looking phone, but is evidently one of Wakanda's fine pieces of technology: it is untraceable. I suck in a breath, going over the points I want to make, then turn on the phone. There is only one contact: Tony Stark. Like ripping off a bandage, I press the green button as quick as possible. But something won't let me press the phone to my ear. I hear the ring dialing.

My stomach is a nervous mess. _What is he going to be like? What is he going to say?_ I normally don't like making phone calls anyway (plight of an Introvert), and this phone call is triple, or quadruple, more serious. It keeps dialing.

Finally, I hear a sharp voice say, "Stark."

"Uh, um." How wonderfully worded. "This is Ella Walin. I'm calling on behalf of Steve Roger's and his team." A short huff escapes my lips. I talked!

I hear a quick intake of breath and then Stark's sassy voice say away from the phone, "I'm sorry, someone's trying to sell me more bikini magazines, and I really need to get my name off their potential subscribers list. I'll be back in ten."

For a minute I don't hear anything. Then Tony's voice says in a rapid, but sharp, whisper, "Why are you calling? Did something happen?" Genuine concern is evident in his tone.

"No! I mean, no." I give a small cough. _Stay cool. Stay cool._ "I am Mr. Barnes therapist. There was an article I read that said you made something called BARF. Do you remember that?"

"Uh, yeah. Why?" His sharp voice pierces my ear. "Wait. How do I know you aren't some reporter?" Starks tone turns accusing, after getting over the worry of a potential disaster filling his ears.

"I know what Bucky did to your parents." That shuts him up.

It feels a little harsh, but this isn't the time to chat.

I continue, trying to get back on topic. "Those glasses could help Bucky make a quick recovery. They could save him. I want to know if there is any way you could send them to Romania, and I could pick them up."

Tony doesn't speak for a few moments. "Why would I do anything for Barnes? He _killed_ my parents."

 _Seriously?_ "You sent him that arm?! Why would you send that if you hated him?"

Stark sputters. "That doesn't matter. It was just lying around with some of my iron man suits…. It doesn't matter! The point is, that man killed my parents, and if he has ' _issues'_ now because of it, then I don't give a d*mn!"

This is ridiculous. I pretty sure Stark just has those glasses just lying around. Also, I can read people. Stark sure as heck wouldn't have sent that arm if he didn't care. Something inside him probably wants to be mad. He cares (I hope) to much to be furious, though.

"Look, I understand. But you and I both know that it wasn't his fault. You don't have to send the glasses, fine. Just know that this man is suffering just as much as you are over your parents death."

Tony is about to interrupt when I say passionately, "Yes, they are your parents, but he has to live with two _dozen_ deaths on his head!"

Those words tear themselves from my lips and bounce around the room. I come back to this white room from my dark place of fury. Everything goes from passion, to reality, in a blink of an eye. My tongue taste bitter and my words settle into the room with a stale echo.

"I have killed just as many!" Stark erupts, in anguish. I startle back, not expecting the outburst.

I am about to ask him to elaborate, despite it being somewhat off topic. The temptation to help someone with their problems almost overwhelms me. Stark, although, sighs before I get a chance to say anything.

"Fine. I'll send them. But you owe me a few million dollars." I sigh in relief and jubilation. He pauses. "Why did you call and not Steve?"

"I wanted to ask. I won't be biased."

I hear Stark mumble sarcastically, "Yeah, doesn't sound like you're biased at all."

"When can I get it?" I ask eagerly, deciding to ignore that last comment. For some reason it made me uncomfortable.

"I guess I can send it tomorrow. You kind of interrupted me during an important meeting. So, I think I've done enough favors for you for now." Tony says sarcastically.

Sarcasm= pain. Stark must be leaking grief. If there is something I know from years of psychology, it's that people blame themselves. They will try to push their hurt on someone else, but it always reverts to feeding that beast inside: insecurity and guilt. With it also, suicidal thoughts. Thoughts of not being good enough.

Everything that happened during that Civil War could be blamed on someone else. Yet, they blame themselves. Don't think I haven't seen it a thousand times. Stark probably had it the worse. I read what happened. It's not hard to imagine Stark being angry and then blaming himself for how it turned out.

"Thank you." Sincerity latches onto those words and carries through the phone. I press into the cell. "Please know that they are all doing ok. Your friends are ok." I want to sear in that point. "They don't blame you for anything, believe me. Take care of yourself, you deserve it."

Silence on the other end. Then the phone clicks. He hung up.

/

I crack open the door. A bang rings through my ears.

Quickly grabbing a some headphones, I walk past three dividers and come onto Steve and Bucky. Steve is re-cocking a gun.

We stand in the compounds shooting range. This place really does have everything. Steve holds the gun up, and shoots it at the paper person across the room. Bucky looks on. Right near the heart, the bullet pierces the paper.

This is phase two of getting Bucky to confront his past: guns. Sniper rifles, to be more exact. Steve and I decided not to go that far today, though. Just a normal hand-gun.

Bucky stares at the gun in Steve's hand, and reaches out with his hand to pick it up. Bucky is trying to suppress the shaking in his palm. It's going to be difficult for him to shoot with only one hand, but the point of this isn't perfection, it's trying to realise his past and not tuck it away.

The gun wobbles in his sweaty hand, trying to point at the center target, but never settling in one place. I can see the small pores of Bucky's cheeks filling with sweat. It makes him look sick. Like a fever is trying to break from his body.

He readjusts the gun in his hand, and clears his throat in a grunting noise.

A shot rings through the air. Then another. Then another. Three more.

 _Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang._

So many, and so sudden. My mouth is open, and I can hear the shots despite my headphones. I stare at Bucky's face. His blue eyes have gone fuzzy, staring into nowhere. The gun remains pointed in the air, pointed towards the paper, and Bucky's arm is locked in that position.

"Bucky?" Steve takes the gun from his hand, and tries to get Bucky's attention. Bucky sinks to the ground, slowly crumbling to his knees, where he stays sitting. His face remains frozen.

"He's having a flashback!" I yell, going over to Bucky's now shaking form. I gently slap his face. I hold his clenched jaw and dewy face in my hands. In a gentle voice, I say, "Bucky, look around you. It's ok." He remains looking straight in front of me, although, with unseeing eyes.

Then I feel his hand push me away. Well, more like he raises them and I have to back up or get hit in the face. He stands to his full height, lengthening his arm until the gun is pointing straight at my head.

 _Oh my G…_

"Bucky.." My voice cracks. I don't know what he is imagining but it can't be good. The cold metal jabs into my head as Bucky presses the gun farther into my skull.

"Ella!" Steve yells. Grabbing me away from the gun, and kicking it out of Bucky's hand, Steve saves me from where I was petrified. Hands in the air, and Bucky's whole body trembling, his finger mimics pulling the trigger.

That's when he snaps out of it. Bucky falls to the ground gasping and convulsing. Despite Steve's resistance and shocked face, I run over to Bucky. Tears stream down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Роза. I'm sorry," He mumbles in a hoarse whisper.

Those beautiful crystal eyes ooze sadness, and I put my shaking hand on his head. I gently stroke his soft but tangled hair, albeit feeling self conscious.

Bucky looks at me. "I'm sorry," He mumbles again.

"It's ok," I say in a whisper. My words are sticky in the air.

We really need those glasses.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"Keep walking," Chidike whispers in my ear, guiding me with an iron grip on my arm. I briskly walk forward, looking anxiously around me.

People glance at the two of us. They are probably wondering what a giant Wakandan and petite white girl are doing strolling quickly through the streets of Bucharest. Chidike lets go of my arm and I rub the sore muscle.

Ever since Bucky's break down, I have been going, going, going, nonstop. The whole event was so striking to me. I feel sick constantly. Nauseas. Something inside me is off kilter, all of my thoughts are thrown off by the overwhelming color of anxiety. Everything is drenched in gray.

We near the cafe. It's underneath a building that has many tan columns. Small tables sit outside, and, through a few of the columns, I see many glass windows. I stop dead in my tracks.

Stark. Tony Stark.

He is sitting at a small table inside. The sharp suit, goatee, and rose colored glasses, are unmistakable. Chidike almost slams into me, and would have if it wasn't for his acute awareness of his surroundings. The brawny mans brown eyes follow mine to where they are glued to Starks relaxed form. He's simply sipping espresso.

Why is _Stark_ here?! A simple middleman was supposed to drop the glasses off in an inconspicuous hand off. This is what Stark's head of security and Chidike agreed on over a text message. My nerves jack up to a ten, everything shifts from gray mush to red hot fire.

 _Is Stark not going to give us the glasses? Why would he come all the way to Romania?_

"Wait," Chidike says gruffly to me. "Stand here." He shoves me down an alley near the cafe. I watch as he rounds the corner and goes into the door. My diaphragm heaves. The shock is still streaming through my body.

When Chidike tall dark form comes out, I run to him, despite possible detection. "What does he want?"

"To speak to you. Come," He pulls me towards the door. I have to listen intently to understand his heavy Wakandan accent. "We don't want anyone to see you."

When I enter the cafe, the strong smell of coffee and exotic pastries plasters onto me. The smells weave into my clothing. Everything about the atmosphere is calming. Even the way Stark is slouching, eyebrows lifted when he sees me, stops my stomach churning. I still don't know what to expect, though.

I smooth down my blue shirt/dress, and my sneakers scuffle across the floor. As I near the chair, Tony stands up. "Ah, Miss Ella. Thanks for meeting my humble self here. I didn't want my money going into some old therapists greedy hands, but I see you're actually hotter than expected. It must be the deeper voice." He pulls out the opposite chair for me. Well, isn't he the charmer.

I laugh despite myself. "Uh, thanks." Taking a chair, I try to sort my thoughts and appear casual. I think I only manage to look constipated, with my arms plastered to my sides, in an effort to avoid my pit stains showing, and my twisted face. "Why are you here?" The confusion all comes out in that package of tightly spoken words.

Stark raises his eyebrows as he takes his seat, pushing his suit jacket out behind him with a flourish. "I wanted to know whose hands my machine was falling into. You see," Stark takes a delicate sip of his espresso. "Those glasses cost me a pretty penny. And, since I was feeling so generous, I thought I would come out here and explain how to use them."

"Ok," I say, shifting in my chair. "Well, I do have some questions about how exactly it affects the hippocampus in terms of la-"

"Whoa there." Tony puts his hands up. "Things always sound better coming from my mouth. Let me explain. It's not as magical as it sounds."

"But it-"

Stark interrupts me once again. This man has so much sass.

"Will you let me get two words out?! Geez, I thought shrinks were supposed to listen." He sighs. "When I made this prototype, I was going through a lot. A lot of regret. Obviously, I'm amazing, and the machine works, but-"

I laugh aloud. Stark looks offended. Looking back at Chidike, who has taken a seat a table away, he says, "Could you get her to be quiet? I mean really, this is ridiculous."

I huff, then listen. Stark, obviously, starts talking again. "I rarely say this, but the machine has its flaws. I don't expect you to understand all of the mechanics behind the frames, so I'll dumb it down. Sensors in the tails send and receive signals from the hippocampus, which project memories through the glass. But the core of what the glasses do, is try to change the memory. It will be changed in a way it never happened. While this might help with some of Barnes trauma, all it will do is hide it."

Reality slaps me in the face. Bucky cannot go on as he is now. Everytime he has tried to confront his murders, it ended in pain and horrible flashbacks. I don't want him to stuff it down; that will only reverse what I'm trying to do. But if we could only make the memories more bearable for the time being, then maybe we could get somewhere….

I need this. I need this so bad. But, why? Whenever Bucky is lying on the floor, in a pool of his own torment, I feel every beat of his suffering. My heart spreads rapidly when I try to sooth him, as if this delicate being has been handed to my care. And I want more then anything to see it survive.

"I still want it."

Tony's brown eye's scan my face beneath his rose tinted glasses. His eyebrows release their crease. "Fine. But it didn't help me."

"I have no other choice," I whisper softly, looking away from his piercing gaze.

Guilt ravages my body like a dagger being pushed into my heart, then pulled steadily out, dripping with mistakes I've made. The faults that have affected Bucky to the core. This could be the only way to fix things, and I'm so desperate.

I _hate_ being desperate.

For a minute Tony and I do nothing but sit at the table, absorbing the sun that comes through the glass. Our eye's point to random places in the room. But we are not looking at this man-made shop. Rather, spaces in time that hold memories and thoughts. Bundles of recollection and regrets are formed in our mind, and are forever ingrained into those points we chose to look into. What depth this coffee shop now has.

Stark opens his mouth, then shuts it. He grunts, and picks up small metal case off the ground near his feat. With a sigh, it's slid across the table to it's new, desperate owner: me.

I prepare to stand up, now in the mindset to help Bucky, but Stark stops me. "Say hi to the old man for me," Stark says with so much dejection.

The trance shatters. As the consuming fire of compassion overcomes me, I automatically slide back into my seat. "I will. I'm sure Steve will be glad to hear it. They miss everything you built, ya know?"

"Ha, you mean everything I destroyed." It's like sarcasm was spat on my face.

"You may have destroyed things, but you also built a team that saved thousands of lives!" I sigh, putting my hands in front of me. "Tony. Trying to hide in the shadows and conform to the government and system, is not doing anybody any favors. You're Tony Stark! The background was not made for you. You're suppressing your creativity and the things you use to help people _survive_. I get that you feel as if everything you've done was a mistake. I don't believe that. All that has happened, happened for a reason. While you may not see how the heck this situation is good, eventually, you will."

"Yeah, I don't see that ever happening. You don't understand." Stark's voice fills with emotion: an unusual thing for him. His voice cracks ever so slightly. "The things that make me Tony Stark are the things that make other people's lives a living hell."

I stumble on my words. All this sounds like some kind of fake speech. "Most people would be dead, if not for you! And the Avenger's lives would be like that no matter what. You brought them together so that they can share in their suffering, and joy's. If they didn't have that, they would all be goners."

What impact these words will have on Stark, I don't know. But as I stand up, leaving Stark staring into the depths of his espresso, I hope that he feels comforted. The small things I can do, don't seem like much. What needs to happen is reconciliation. Should that happen before or after the Avengers are slightly better? Perhaps reconciliation will be the only thing that truly heals them.

/

Bucky lies in his bed, shivering in a hot sweat. The door cracks open, letting in a sliver of light to cut the dark.

"Bucky?" Ella's sweet voice makes Bucky's shivers slow. "It's time, if you're ready?"

Without a word, Bucky gets up to meet Ella's heart shaped face at the door. Her brown hair is in curls and frames her face and her red checks show she ran to his room. All the fear and torture leave Bucky for a moment, a moment that is consumed by blind trust.

 _Ella wants to help me. She_ wants _too._ Bucky's mind spins.

She gently takes his hand, and his blue eye's glue to her's. They walk down the hall to the procedure that will forever intertwine their fate. The procedure where brokenness will be replaced with blankness. Where love will grow through the depths of grief.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Snow falls around a dark figure wearing a surprisingly light coat for the weather. The white flurries seem to run from his path. Nature seems weighed down by his very existence.

A Russian farm house looms in the distance. The man walks toward it slowly, his gait awkward and uneven. His brown, greasy locks slap his face; they look like they are trying to grab his humanity. But his eyes remain stuck in a glaze.

Two other forms appear behind him. But they make no sound, like apparitions. One is a petite women, with bangs skimming her forehead and eyes wide in anticipation. The other is a man, who is the same as the one heading towards the farmhouse. But while one is dazed, the others eyes are brimming with unspoken despair. Bucky quakes. Ella waits.

The ghosts fly over the snow. It skims their ankles without a touch. Despite the hologram around them, their eyes are glued to the man meandering towards the barn. Meandering, because he seems confused. Yet, he knows his mission.

Giggling bites them. Nips at their ears. It stabs Ella and Bucky to the heart. They know what this means. The man drags open the barn door, unsealing his fate, unpeeling it through this neat wooden box.

Therein sits his souls death. A small, giggling girl. Her course blond hair messily frames her face. Kittens crawl around her lap, and she gleefully sits petting them. Bucky is frozen. Ella gasps.

The man enters the barn, which has a small fire flittering over the walls. His shadow creeps along as he goes stumbling towards the girl.

"No," Bucky whispers, watching his younger self pull a gun out from inside his new jacket. Ella's eyes sweep from Bucky to the Winter Soldier. She is caught in the scene of this creepy and horrifying play.

The little child is completely consumed in her innocence. A gun cocks, contrasting the warm atmosphere around her. Winter Soldiers become kaleidoscope, as his shadow is multiplied throughout the room. The girl looks up. Her scream slashes the air.

The Soldier steps forward, into the light. His leather jacket and metal arm seem too put-together for his shaggy hair and glazed eyes. Despite the cold, sweat fills his pores. Winter looks sick.

Arm of flesh meets the metal of gun. Its pointed straight at the girl. She backs away, fear consuming her gaze. "Mama!" The child screeches.

Suddenly, the man lowers his gun. He shakes his head, eyes clearing. The Winter Soldier just _stops. Stops._ He leaves.

Moves on.

One shake of his head, and a minute of simple staring between the child and him, and he leaves. Gone with the snow.

Ella looks relieved, but perplexed. Bucky can't blink. Eyes are still glued to the scene.

There used to be a bang. There used to be a sobbing; from a mother to her child. The girl of Абрам Попов, a Hydra commander who just that morning had gone against very strict commands, used to be lying on that floor as a message. The girl on the list of Bucky's most haunting assassinations, used to melt into the stiff hay. The child with a red hole in her mind: Роза.

Now, Poзa sits on the floor, watching the assassine leave. The rose finally breaks the spell with a scream. One last, final scream.

/

I feel sick. Unsettled. Morally infirm.

Like rounds and rounds of chemo, I try to eradicate the cancer in his brain. The tumor that has enfolded our lives. I stick him into the room T'Challa set up for his procedure. Make him watch his different murders be mutated into a false finale. Over and over.

But it's too fake. After that first simulated assassination, I was jolted. That wasn't how it was supposed to go. She was so close to death… But then it stopped. It was counterfeit.

Bucky comes out of the room every time, wide eyed, but only in the beginning. After each simulant, his eyes get duller and duller. I'm afraid his eyes are a reflection on his soul. Slowly fading out of this world, into a place inside his head where everything is jumbled up.

I sit in my office, staring out at the pouring rain that's sliding down the large window. The beads clump, then slowly spread their claws, finally slipping and melting away.

How dismal.

The rain makes me feel even more nauseous, which has been an increasing effect as the procedures ware on. The inside of my stomach swirls like the patterns I'm drawing on the window. The door bangs open.

"Ella." I can tell it's Steve's voice by the almost annoying concern that it's drowned in.

"Yes?"

Steve comes into the room, albeit a little hesitantly, looking solemn. "Bucky is finished. He went to the first one again."

"What! Why would you let him do that?! Why would _he_ do that?" I gasp, and immediately begin to pace.

I should know this! I'm his therapist! My mind is so jumbled, I can't think straight.

"I don't know," Steve heaves through his nose, pinching the bridge. "I guess he just wanted to see that the little girl was ok. One more time."

"But she wasn't!" My voice splits. The canyon cracks open, and the flood, filled with all my regrets and sickness, spills out. And all onto poor Steve, who probably needs a hug more than I do.

"Bucky killed that girl! And now he's confused… I just know! Stark told me, he _told_ me. I was just so desperate, and I don't know _what to do."_ I grab Steve's gray shirt, and my tears slide down the sweat retardant fabric. "Why did you bring me here Steve? I can't, and haven't done anything, and I never will. I… I thought I was a good therapist. It was part of who I am, understanding people. And I feel like I've lost that."

The monologue is finished, and I just hold on to Steve. We simply stand there. I begin to rock my feet on the floor ever so slightly. Something me and my mom would do. It's like a small dance.

"Ella, you are so much more than that. You are not just your job, or what you think makes you good at it. I-" He pauses. "I know what it feels like to lose your identity. And the thing is, who we are is not found in what we are good at, and most of the time, not even what we do. It's in what we believe." Steve pulls away from where I was hugging him. He looks looks me straight in the eye. "And ya know what? I believe in you. I've seen what you have done already. Everybody has felt… Like they will get better. That their problems were not impossible wars, but ones they could win. Maybe you haven't 'fixed' them yet, but some things come with _time._ "

Pathetically, I sniff. When I look into Steve's eyes, I see he is not even looking at me.

"What happens to Bucky is beyond us. I know you're doing your best. Let's just let him cool off, then we can get in a session for you to asses the changes."

Steve straightens, and I wipe my sodden face. A tender look flys across his face, and Steve puts his hands on my shoulders. "Alright?"

"Yeah," I cough out.

Barely.

/

The pits of his eyes seem to shrink smaller and smaller, until they are mere pins in a sea of dull blue. Even if Bucky does look me in the eye, there is no depth. All the life has been sucked from him.

"Well, how do you feel about it now?" I try to continue.

Bucky has stared at the same place for some time now, never shifting in his chair. His breathing remains mediocre. If he was frozen in time, I wouldn't be surprised.

"I… I…" Bucky mumbles. "Can't remember. Was I…"

"You were on the roof. How do you remember it?"

"It's all… Jumbled. I don't know what's real." Bucky mumbles, rubbing his forehead in circles.

"You don't have to, Bucky," I say earnestly. "I just want to know how you remember it now. To see how to move forward."

What he doesn't know is that I'm worried. Most of Bucky's memories transformed in ways in which the person still died. So it didn't fully replace the memory. That was the glasses job. But that first one, was wrong. It wasn't supposed to happen that way.

The machine completely replaced the memory. Steve and I tried to figure what had gone wrong. Was something messed up with the machine? It worked fine with all the other ones, though. We finally reached a conclusion.

There was absolutely no other way to reconcile the memory other than that Роза wasn't killed. No funeral, no sorry, no dirty revelation about the victim, could reconcile Bucky. A pure, innocent child was killed. The only way to make it better, was to save her.

"I DON'T KNOW!" Bucky shouts, standing up from his chair. "I LOST MY MIND _again_!"

He points at me, his hand shaking. Voice cracking, Bucky says in a whisper, "I don't remember. So stop asking. I know I killed her. But I can't see it anymore. None. All of the memories are FAKE! I don't _feel anything._ "

Tears well in my eyes. "I'm _sorry_. If you let me-"

"You can't change this! You see into my soul, Ella. What do you see now?"

It's not a taunt. It's a question. A challenge.

I run to the desk, wiping tears off my cheeks. Bucky stands back, watching me with cold eyes. The smooth lacquer makes no sound. Everything is in complete silence when I pull out the blue leather journal with a red star.

"No."

I begin to read the words.

Bucky sinks to his knees.

One by one, the letters peel off my tongue, and hiss when they touch the air.

Bucky clutches the chair.

I come closer, stomach churning, tears tumbling down.

All the words come from within the cracked crevices of the crumbling pages, and are pushed out by mere air. These words, that cause such harm, can be thrown around like the wind.

I hate myself for this. But I need him to feel… To know that I've done SOMETHING to help him. That he has made _some_ progress, like Steve said.

 _Dear God, please…_

The last words are bitter on my tongue, but the room savors them.

Bucky is clutching the white leather, squatting on his knees. He doesn't move, except for his body quaking.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. With jerks, my muscles fall down to the ground to meet him. I move across the floor to his body. Bucky's hand is like a claw on the chair, so it takes all my might to pry it away.

"I… I…" Bucky chokes.

I gently stroke his hand, waiting for his head to raise. Tears stream down both our faces. When he looks up at me, there is something in his eye's I've never seen before. Instead of agony, Bucky's never ending pain, it's like the tears washed that away. Like, the shattered glass has been glued together to become even more crystal clear, _because_ of its flaws.

A wave of heat flushes over my body, as I feel Bucky's strong hand on the back of my neck. It is course, albeit warm and strong, from all those years of fighting. His eye's gather in my face, and focus on my lips. Bucky draws his forehead to mine.

"Thank you," The Winter Soldier breathes lightly onto my lips.

And with tear stains still on our cheeks, we kiss.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

"Daddy?"

"Yeah! Yes, its me sweetheart!" Scott presses into the phone, as if trying to melt into it and right to where his little girl is halfway across the world.

"Mommy, it's Daddy!" Scott can here her gleeful voice yell away from the phone.

"Scott?" An older woman's voice says emotionally.

"Yeah, Maggie, its me."

"Thank God. We weren't sure if we would ever hear directly from you again. Where are you?"

"I can't say," Scott looks around him at the rec room. Seeing nobody, he whispers, "For security reasons. But… We are currently somewhere- that shall remain nameless- in Africa. The only reason I can call you now is because they have totally sick tech that can't be tracked. Wink wink, if ya know what I mean."

"Well, when will you be back?" Maggie questions, quickly frustrated.

"I don't know. We are waiting for things to cool down with the government. Maybe," Scott says sarcastically, "if some giant, I don't know, _purple_ alien comes down from the sky and we beat it's a*s, the government will pardon us."

"Scott." She sighs.

"Just give it some time. In the meanwhile, could I talk to Cassie?"

"First, tell me, have you been stealing again?"

"No! How, and why would I? I'm practically living on a resort!"

The only reply he gets is the "Daddy!" a sweet adolescent screeches into the phone. Clearly, Maggie was overpowered by the sheer force of her daughter's joy.

"Cassie! How have you been? How is school? Is Tommy being mean to you again? How did your art project go?" Scott says in a blur, somehow trying to make up for too much lost time.

"Hehe, it's _fine_ Daddy!" Cassie giggles. "Tommy left me alone, but only after I told him that my Daddy is Ant-Man and would kick his butt if he teased me again."

"That's my girl," He smiles into the phone. The biggest grin imaginable is on his face.

"And I showed everyone at school the present you got me!"

"Wait," Scott says, bewildered. "What present?"

"The bear that can talk and sounds like you! I can ask it questions, and it's like you're talking to me!"

"You didn't know about the scholarship, Scott?" Maggie asks, having heard his question.

"The scholarship?!" Scott jumps off the chair, just as Sam and Steve enter the room. Both raise their eyebrows.

Scott looks down at the ground, after shushing them with his hand. "What are you saying Maggie?"

"A man came over here, gave us the bear, then said Cass now has a full scholarship to the collage of her choice. I thought maybe it was some kind of joke, but he put the money in my bank account. Scott, you're telling me you didn't do this?"

"I… I…" Scott mumbles, breathless. "I've got to go. Cassie, I love you!" Scott yells loudly into the phone. He clicks it off, and turns to Steve and Sam.

"Someone gave Cassie a full scholarship. Who would do that?!" While it's a question, his face is practically glowing.

"Did T'Challa do it?" Sam asks Steve.

"He would have told me," He answers, rubbing his chin. "The government, maybe?"

"After what we did? No way. Even if it is just his kid," Sam says indignantly.

"Then who else has that kind of money and knows about his kid?"

All three of their eyes click at the same time. "Stark," They say in unison.

"Wait, why would he do that?" Steve asks.

"Maybe he was trying to do something nice?" Scott throws in.

"I don't think Starks capable of that. Wait! I know how to see if he's up to something." Sam says determinedly.

"What?" Asks Steve.

"Give me the phone." Sam just grabs it from Scott instead.

He pounds a number he clearly knows by rote into the sleek phone. He huffs, and closes his eyes.

"Mrs. Riley?" Sam asks.

The whole room can hear the exclamation of surprise and excitement that explodes from the phone.

"Whoa, whoa there. Slow down! I can't understand you both at the same time."

Sam stands there, his face increasingly slathered with a concoction of alarm and joy. Steve and Scott intently at him. "NO! Oh no he didn't!" Sam burst out. It's that happy kind of outburst, though. Say, like when you get into that college with an all paid scholarship and your parents just can't believe it.

Eyes wide, Sam says in a rush, "I'll call you later Mrs. and Mr. Riley, I've got something important I must attend to."

As if letting out a breath, he says, jumping up and down in little, excited hops, "Stark freakin paid for Riley's parents living expenses!"

"Wait, who's Riley? Your dog?" Scott asks, perplexed.

"No, my old war partner, When he was alive, he talked about his parents all the time. After I got back, and Riley had his… Accident, I felt like I owed it to him to take care of them. Since I've been here, I haven't been able to do that. But, now, Starks given them a retirement fund for them to live like the folks on the Cialis commercial!"

"Why would Stark be doing this kind of stuff?" Steve asks, turning away.

"I don't know, but I would say it's the least he owes us." Scott says it demurely. He still has the biggest grin on his face, though, only to be matched by Sam's.

Steve's face mocks a cheesy film of a heartbroken and confused man. Eyebrows creasing, he is about to leave the room, when suddenly Clint burst in.

"GUESS WHO IS HERE?!"

He opens the door completely and then Natasha comes slowly into the room.

"Steve, you look like the puppy just died on your favorite movie," Natasha says.

Steve closes his mouth, and walks slowly over to Nat. He wraps his arms around her slowly, enclosing her in a hug. "Oh." Nat says softly.

A moment of silence passes.

"I brought something for you," She says quietly.

Clint lugs a crate into the rec room. The sun shows the dust particles that whisp around its lid. 'Mclure' is carved into the fading green painted wood.

"My mother's crate," Steve murmurs. Thousands of moments are caught in that breath.

He falls to his knees, glazing the grit with the tips of his fingers. "How did you get this?" Steve asks Natasha softly.

"It's a bit of a long story, but Stark got it, had me bring it. He said that you would want it." Natasha sighs.

Steve doesn't respond. As if lifting a delicate vase, he opens the lid. Inside is a women's life.

A doll with red hair. A wedding dress. Old letters from relatives in Ireland. Baby clothes. A carved rattle.

Steve runs his fingers across the beads of the wedding dress, feeling their texture and antiquity. Faded but still beautiful. It holds the weight of young love in its creases.

The letters. _We miss you Sarah, come visit with young Steve soon,_ one of them says at the end. _If Joseph keeps hurting you, then you should leave him. Come back to Ireland, and bring the child with you._

Why is Steve's face always like a stone? Perhaps he has learned to bury his feelings. The pain and joys of childhood brought back through one box. And trauma ensues

Scott, Clint, Sam, and Natasha watch him silently. Nat is about to lean down, comfort him, but he speaks.

"She told me to always stand up, even when I got beat down. Peggy told me that too. And Sharon. So, I didn't back down. And now… I don't…"

"Steve," Natasha says, sympathy filling her voice. "You did what you thought was right. That's all anyone would expect of you. I don't know why Stark is doing this. Guilt? I don't know. But you don't have to regret it. We all made our choice. It's not your fault."

Steve nods his head. "I know. You made your choice. But," Steve stands, looking at all of them in the eyes. "Stark made us a family. Took us into his house. I know the team couldn't work. But," Steve's voice becomes mist in the wind. "Does he owe us? For anything? I _left him lying on the ground for just trying to help us._ To keep his family together."

"Steve," Sam begins.

"No."

With those words bitter in the air, he leaves the room.

Clint looks around. "I'm, uh, going to find Wanda."

"I'm right here." Wanda whispers, coming out of the door that leads to the kitchen.

"I heard everything Clint," She answers his concerned look. "And he's right."

Before anyone has the chance to object, the phone rings. Everyone looks at each other. "It's not for me," Nat says.

Wanda walks to a table, and picks up the only phone. "Hello?" Her heavy Sokovian accents breathes into the metal.

Her breaths become quicker. "He what?"

"What is it?" Clint walks over to her.

"Ok, yes, thank you." Wanda clicks it shut.

Her eyes bleed with emotion. "Stark… He… Built a hospital in Lagos. State of the art. Gave free health care to all the families who had someone killed."

"D*mn you Stark." Natasha searches the ground like a map. She's searching for something that cannot be found on it, though, and leaves the room.

Sam and Scott are both bursting. Stark has now brought them some satisfaction. Brought Sam's friendship with him to be less of a lie. There is nothing left for them to do besides revel in their joy.

Tears crawl like spiders into Wanda's eyes. They spread like veins, morbidly changing her face. She tries to hold them back, she's drowned. Wanda is choked.

Only a sob, and Clint scrambles to her. "Shh, shh, it's ok Wanda."

In between those anguished gasps, the choked sounds of a person being pushed down into their own fears and misery, Wanda says, "This isn't me. I… Stark-"

"Wanda, hey, hey, hey," He pulls her chin up to meet his eyes. "Look at me. I have told you a million times what happened isn't your fault. I know you don't need to hear that kind of bullcrap anymore. Ya, it was your fault. Because, you know what? After those few months of training, you totally should have been able to make a split second decision about whether to send a bomb into a crowd of a hundred people or into the sky where it might have not hurt anyone. Simple sh*t like that."

"Now, you have to accept that mistake. Your powers are one of the most incredible things I have ever seen, and this is coming from someone who has seen a lot." Wanda looks up through watery eyes at him. "Including Thor and Steve's abs. But you need to see that your powers are amazing. They are part of you just as your heart is. But they are not _you_. Wanda is a caring, passionate, emo women who won't let anything control her. Especially not her fears."

"I'm trying," She whispers.

"And you will get there," He finishes. "Stark is giving out these little, I don't know, gifts? To people probably to make up for his guilt. Or some power move." Clint's squinches his eyes suspiciously. "I never could understand that man. For whatever reason, consider this... a perk! People aren't going to like you any more for this, but, hey, if it makes you feel better, then great! You owe to them, though. You've already kicked enough butt for your age, and will kick more in the future. I see a hero in you," Clint put's his hand's on Wanda's shoulders.

"Don't let frickin fear mess you up. Leave that to all those people whose butt's are going to be kicked by you."

Clint smiles at Wanda, his eyes creamy, and kisses her forehead.

"Thank you Clint," Wanda says.

Doubt is soon to be replaced by ascendancy inside her.

/

"Steve," Natasha says, closing the door behind her with a gentle click.

He doesn't say anything. A phone stares him down. It's face reflects Steve and his ringing spirit.

"I have thought about calling him. Almost did. But I don't think I could handle the hate in his voice," Steve says, firmly. Never quaking. Steve seems a stronghold, but inside his emotions are pounding to come out of his metal brain.

"He doesn't hate you," Natasha replies softly. She sits down on his bed.

"Stark doesn't have to say it for me to know it's true."

"I think he forgives Barnes-"

Steve cuts her off. "This isn't about Bucky! This is about me making all of our lives d*mn miserable. I stand by that d*mn phone every night. If I call him, it's not going to fix anything."

"You don't know that," Natasha says firmly.

"Will it get us off this compound and saving people? Will we ever be a family again?"

"No. But you know what _won't_ help? Letting all this…" She moves her hands to emphasis the point. "Anger fester, and then never being able to work things out with Stark. I'm not saying this whole thing isn't a mess. But the world's going to need saving sooner or later. And you want to be the people Stark is going to call."

Steve slumps back into his chair. When the heat of the conversation blows away, Natasha stands up.

"Call him. Don't. It's up to you. But I know from personal experience that not forgiving someone? It never ends well."

As she walks out of the room, Steve calls, "How long are you staying?"

"Two days. Just enough time to make sure Stark doesn't send you guys a puppy."

/

 _Metal, slick and thick, pointed at the young girl's cranium. The gun goes off. The sound flaps throughout the room. The illusion shatters._

 _Bucky sits on a bed, gray pigment swathing him. The same barbaric metal pins him down. All the gray is absorbed into the gun, then it fires. Instead of red painting the walls, gray does. The illusion shatters._

 _This room is black, with spotlights on its inhabitants. Steve. Sam. Scott. Wanda. Clint._

 _Bam. Bam. Bam. They all wipe the ground in grey with their tumbling bodies._

 _The gun clicks. Clicks again. Who… Who's firing these depression pellets?_

 _Me._

I gasp awake. Paralysis seized every part of me except my lungs.

 _Dang you yoga_. Whatever lies about 'root chakra' and breathing techniques they are teaching, aren't working. Eventually, time works it's wonders.

Like a fawn walking for the first time, my shaking limbs grace the floor. Delicate movements shiver through my body, until I slam my face into my door.

 _She's beauty, she's grace, she slams a door in her face. An epic poem about Ella Walin._

Sarcasm rips through my body like a catalyst. In truth, however, I feel morally infirm again. That was me. I pulled those triggers. Dreams reflect. They are mirror images of our souls. Or our dinner, but still. If this isn't reality giving me a punch in the gut, I don't know what is.

 _The girl… That was my first patient_.

I had shoved that memory down for too long. It needed to be aired out. Like soggy sheets needing to be blown in the crip summer wind. Unlike the cleanliness that comes from that, however, my heart splatters blood on that memory.

The sink's water, the toilet's buzz, are just background noise to the sound of bullets harassing my ears. The glass mirror pushes my image onto me. Tired and disgusting.

I have a moment of depersonalization. It's like I've become a ghost and I'm now looking at everything I fear. Myself. The very things I detest, I have become. Disregard. Mistakes. Hurting others. _Killing others._

I loathe wearing that girl again. But I have to. I must live out my sentence.

When I can open the door again, Bucky is leaning against the other wall.

"Why are you up?" I ask. He straightens.

"I saw your light on."

 _He was up too._

"Are you ok?" Bucky asks. My heart melts. I put my hand on his strong and warm arm.

"I should be asking you that," I whisper piteously.

Gruff, but soothingly, his arms enclose my body. I nestle my face in his neck. Brown locks dance around my face. My breath comes in huffs. I sound like a dog. I can never handle my tears.

There are two kind of crying, just as there are two types of anger. One: Tears, gentle voice cracking, and a tissue. Two: Hot, sobs, and nonexistent control of your voice.

What began as a one, became a two. The agony decimates through my body. Like a fire, it consumes. The tears try to act like white blood cells, eating away the bacteria of my soul. Trying to cleanse. They don't succeed.

Bucky, like a true soldier, stands there. His warmth invades my skin. Without me noticing, we waltz into my room. Soon I can only hear my sobs, only see the soft glow of my lamp. I'm numb.

Bucky sits me on my bed, and takes a seat next to me.

"I saw her again."

"I know," Bucky responds quietly.

"How?" There is no interest in my tone.

"Who do you think I see in my dreams every night?"

People swirl before my eyes. The silence allows them room.

"The nightmares are always terrible. But it's worse when you're awake, because you know you are remembering them on purpose. You think that you deserve the pain," Bucky says quietly. His gruff voice stands stagnant in the room.

"It won't stop hurting. We can't stop that. We have to let it go," Bucky continues.

"I _can't,"_ Is all that I can get to come forth from my mouth.

He looks me straight in the eyes. A worn hand gently glinds across my face. My heart stands still. Every word that comes out of his mouth, I treasure.

"I didn't think I deserved to start over. I did so many terrible things. When Steve found me, I was trying to start a new life. It didn't work. The memories wouldn't go away.

"Then I came here. I saw each person struggling with their own demons." Bucky's voice is thoughtful. Brown hair dangles around his cheek bones.

He has been thinking about this a lot. Once as he left the session, we both went to our rooms for the evening. Dinner was a solemn affair, with only Nat's return to lift the mood. No chance to talk then. It was to awkward for me to go to Bucky. Any words I could speak wouldn't have been adequate to express how I feel.

It's glaringly obvious this whole time Bucky has been having a revelation.

"It wasn't their fault. They deserved to be happy. And I want _you_ to be happy."

Tears pucker, then drop my face.

"I want you to be, too," I sniff back.

"I'm going to try. And now that I've met you, I can finally start over."

Bucky and I fall into a hug. I sit on his legs, curled in a ball in his arms. He holds me.

Neither of us wants to let go, but neither of us wants to move. So Bucky scoots back on the bed, until his back is against the pillows. The lamp stays on. The warm light bathes us both in a hug.

We aren't to be in the darkness anymore.

As I stayed curled in Bucky's arms, listening to his heart beat, I whisper, "I was using you."

"Huh?" Bucky mumbles, now fully awake.

"When I came here, I thought that it would satisfy me. If I could treat you, I mean. That I could make up for killing the girl. You reminded me that I can't find satisfaction in stuff like that. Only in things deeper."

/

 **Hey everyone! Lately I have been getting so many more comments and favorites and reads (over three thousand!), and you have no IDEA how much it means to me. To have people read your work, and to show they enjoy it, is literally the best feeling in the world. So, thank you.**

 **Today, I would absolutely love if you guys told me what you have thought of the story so far with a comment! What you like about it, what you would like to see more of, ect. It would seriously make my day, and I don't care if it is one sentence long, I will adore it. Thank you guys so much for reading!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Dedicated to the ever wonderful and encouraging Brendan Wolff for your amazing comments and support.**

Chapter 13

"Steve, please be open minded."

I look him straight in the eye. Wanda, Bucky, and Natasha all sit around a circular glass table. Pupils stare Steve down.

"I will!" Steve puts his hands up in defense.

"Ok, well," I stand at the front of the meeting room. It feels like I'm back doing power point during college. Good grief, I hated those things. "My proposal is that Bucky, Wanda and I leave the compound."

"WHAT?" Nat and Steve throw through the stagnant air.

"Now, what did I say…"

Natasha cuts me off. "You know what they will do to you if you leave? The government is searching every corner of the earth for these guys. I'm surprised this place hasn't caught their attention yet."

"Why would you want to leave?" Steve questions. His face is like death, freezing and sharp.

"Bucky's next step in treatment is not to perform more illusions with the glasses. No, he needs to make reconciliation himself. We want to visit the places where the Winter Soldier assassinated his victims." I make sure to say Winter Soldier, because it certainly wasn't Bucky.

Steve is about to say something when Bucky cuts him off. "I agreed to it Steve. I'll be fine."

"I trust Ella." He stands up and takes my hand.

Surprise works into the creases of Steve's face. Natasha's face is smeared with the expression.

"Thanks Bucky," I say affectionately, looking deeply into his eyes.

When Steve does a conspicuous cough, Bucky and I share a look. I'm still gazing deep into his gorgeous blue eyes. Bucky smiles, his whole face glowing.

"Um, is there something we don't know about?"

Wanda snickers. Obviously, I told her. Wanda has become a great friend of mine.

"Let's talk about that after we finish discussing the matter we came in here for."

Steve sputters indignantly.

"They're right," Nat says clearly to Steve.

"Fine," Steve mumbles. What a five year old.

"How do plan to hide yourself from the government? As soon as you step foot out of the compound, the UN will be on top of you."

"Well, they wouldn't expect us in plain sight, would they? Obviously, Wanda and Bucky would need a disguise. The government doesn't care about me," I explain.

"A different haircut isn't going to do it, if that's what you think," Steve says.

"Wanda, you want to explain?"

She comes forth onto the stage to perform her magic tricks. Red wisps shoot into Bucky's face. He turns toward Steve and Natasha.

The air runs sharply into their mouths.

I know what they are seeing because I saw it myself. When I told Wanda my plan for leaving the compound, she showed on herself. Irises became blue, her face molded into a new shape and all her features become unrecognizable.

Now, although, I am within the spell. Bucky looks normal to me, but to Nat and Steve he must look like a stranger.

"Um, as you can see, Wanda can change the way Bucky looks. The government won't know a thing," I say. Wow, now I know what it feels like to be a salesman. What a rush. Sometimes I remind myself of Dwight from the Office. Is that a good thing?

"I can only make it last for so long though. If I make it too strong, then it would make his face stay that way. But I can do it again everyday, so we don't need to worry," Wanda pronounces in her Sokovian accent.

"And what would be your purpose for going with them besides this, Wanda." Steve knows the answer.

She straightens herself. An enemy stands before her. A vision of an army. All of Wanda's fears transcend before her in this very task. Red must swell, and overcome. Not just the red, however. Wanda herself must eclipse fear.

I wanted Wanda to come for this very reason. I know she is young. There are people on this compound who have more experience. She, although, has strength that few I know possess. She needs to comprehend this. If Wanda can't protect us out there, nobody can.

"To protect Bucky and Ella."

"Wanda!" Steve pushes his chair back. "I know you have come a long ways, but you wouldn't let us touch you for a month when you first got here! I can't let you go out there. Not just for Bucky and Ella's sake, but for your own."

"Steve," Natasha says quietly.

"No," Wanda says to Nat. "I can speak for myself."

She walks closer to Steve. Her voice is harsh and heavy. Fierce. "I have been through enough Steve, to know my limits. I didn't let anyone touch me for a month because the government _shocked_ me with a collar every time I _moved._ I have had my entire family die, and my second be torn apart by an argument."

Steve's stone facade is disintegrating. Eye's are creasing. He has to look away.

"Fear of myself is the only thing that is in my way. I know of no other way to get rid of it, just like I have done my entire life. I can't control what happens. Only what I do."

"Let me go," She repeats.

Steve's full face transforms.

He places his hands on Wanda's shoulders. "I'm proud of you."

The splintered wood of the barrier that separated them comes down. One fatal blow.

/

"So, you and Bucky, huh?" Nat says.

I'm sitting in my room, trying to write down the plan for the trip. Natasha followed me. Not that I'm surprised. I'm sure she's desperate for some boy talk.

I chuckle. "Yep."

I go back to writing in my notebook.

"Can I ask why?"

Wow, that's actually a really thoughtful and insightful question. One that I haven't had time to ponder much. I've been so caught up in the emotions. Why _do_ I like Bucky?

"Uh," I go sit on the bed with her. "For a number of reasons. I honestly haven't thought about it enough. I think that we understand each other. There are a lot of people on this compound who have been through horrific things that involved the death of other people."

Natasha looks down at her hands.

"I think what is important is finding someone who will accept that. Accept who you are after that, and accept your pain. That's such a large part of therapy. People think it's all about complete healing. It's not. You'll never really find that through procedures. It's about letting them realize what they have. What they don't have. What they didn't do."

"Bucky showed me that. I've been searching for the answer for so long. He completely accepts my feelings for what they, are not what they should be."

"And let's admit, he's hot," I just have to add.

Natasha laughs. "Did you tell him that you felt that way, or did he approach you?"

"It just sort of…. Happened."

Natasha raises her eyebrows.

"Oh, gosh, I don't mean… It was just suddenly we realized that we liked each other."

"Ok, sure." She smiles widely. I think that's the first time I've seen her smile.

"Are you staying?"

"No, I have to go," She says, immediately serious again.

I can tell that she is not fully convinced on the idea she has to leave, either.

"Why? Nat, you built this team. You love them, I know. It's ok to be here."

She coughs and looks around. I can see her eyes barely caressed over with tears. "Uh, I don't think they want me here."

"I don't see why not?"

"Because I betrayed them." Her will dissipates. As if she's accepted her death.

"And didn't they do the same to you? Each person made their choice, and you simply made the one you thought best. I can guarantee they don't resent you for that."

"The choices I've made my entire life have had a negative effect on people, and this one is no different. I made the _wrong_ choice."

"There was no wrong choice in this situation. Besides that, they love you Natasha. You helped make this team."

"I don't know…" She mumbles.

"Well, how about you ask them and see how they feel?"

/

"So, you and Ella, huh," Steve says.

Sly grins sneak onto both soldiers' faces. Their eyes connect. Time unwinds in their souls, and it creeps into the atmosphere. That brother like comradery instantly enters the junction.

Steve brings Bucky into a congratulatory man hug.

"How did it happen man?" Steve asks excitedly. "I don't think you've had a girlfriend since the forties!"

Bucky chuckles. "That is true."

Bucky sits down in a squishy leather chair. Steve had immediately pulled him away into one of the smaller rec rooms. He clearly wants to know all the juicy deets. Steve takes a seat next to him.

"Well, um, I just realized that I… loved her."

Steve is glued. When he finally melts, he spurts, "You _love_ her?"

Bucky runs his fingers through his hair. He inhales. "I do. She makes me happy. So full of laughter and and happiness. Ella understands me and doesn't make me worry or feel ashamed of my past."

"I love her."

Steve's features are a machine: clogging out a hundred different expression in a millisecond. His smile grows wide. "It seems like we definitely picked out the right therapist."

The comrades burst out laughing.

"Really though, Buck, I'm so happy that this happened. Are you sure this trip won't… ruin this happiness?"

"I'm happy Steve, but I still need this. The pain isn't ever going to go away. The trip is going to help. That, and Ella."

Steve stands up. "Well, let's tell the crew the news."

"Steve." Bucky says in his deep voice. He grabs Steve's shoulder and looks straight into his face. "I'm with you till the end of the line."

"So am I."

/

"Wait, wait wait." Scott inhales. "What?"

Puppy like confusion wipes his face.

"You, your, and he… Dang." Sam says, rubbing his forehead.

"Pretty much," I say.

"I'm not really surprised," Clint remarks. "Bring a hot therapist to help the hot super soldier and what do you expect?"

"That's highly accurate," I add. Well, it is.

"We are pretty dashing, aren't we?" Bucky smiles down at me. He leans down and kisses my forehead. It's like a dew drop lands on my head, and it's warmth sends shivers throughout me.

I laugh. Joy. It's growing. Spreading like a yawn. Small. Only one person. Then, slowly, every person gets a turn for their mouth to hang open.

"Nat has something she would like to say as well." I push her forward.

Scott, Sam, and Wanda look intrigued. Clint is on the edge of the rec room couch.

She clears her throat. "I know I, um, haven't been the best partner to you guys. That's why I left. Well, part of the reason."

I can tell it's rare for Natasha to be stumbling on her words.

"What I really want to say is: I'd like to stay on the compound with you."

Natasha looks around at her family's faces.

Wanda's eyes are full of sympathy. She knows what it's like to want your family back.

Of course, Clint leaps out of his seat as soon as the words spill from her mouth.

"Well, come on guys! Natasha wants back in!" He looks eagerly around.

"Uh, I don't really know you, but you seem pretty kick a*s and we could use that around here."

Ever wise Scott.

"Natasha, you know you are welcome here any day. I will have to ask T'Challa tomorrow, but it shouldn't be a problem," Steve adds.

Steve seems happy. I can see, however, the pain of Stark still lurking. It feels as if a demon is controlling his joy. Limiting it.

"What about your mission?" Sam asks.

"Well, it wasn't exactly a mission. More of something… personal." Nat glances at Steve. "It's resolved now."

So. Apparently these two have a little _secret._

"Ok, so, she can come back!" Clint says, obviously making it non negotiable.

Nat looks each of us in the eyes. She has been trained all her life to watch for liers. Taught for the sake of her missions. Now she searches for approval from her family.

Natasha knows my answer, but looks my way, nonetheless. All the sincere love I can give, I show to her. I haven't talked to Natt much. I have heard so much about her though. Everyone loves her.

Steve says, "I think we all want you here more than we are willing to admit." He chuckles.

Everyone nods their heads. Natahsa's eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

"Welcome home," Wanda says.

And Wanda eclipses her in a hug, that soon everyone takes a turn giving.

Everybody is trapped in this scene. Nobody knows the script. Improve is their only option, but the crowd that is their emotions are applauding.

For so long the compound was an iris. The new Avengers: the pupil. Everything was constricted before them. Hot, spewing hatred had boiled in a cauldron of time. Unresolved conflicts. The ripping apart of fictional families. Now everything is dilated.

Ascendancy is closer than ever.

Clint is about to have his best friend again. Someone to let him know that she has been secretly checking up on his kids. They are doing fine.

Sam is letting go of his mistakes with Riley. He has a new team to care for.

Wanda is ready to capture her fears.

Bucky's mistakes are being let out of captivity.

Scott. Well, he's Scott. He's fine. Cassie has her scholarship, and things are going great.

Natasha is about to step into her most valued role of mom. Mother of the new Avengers. Her family.

Steve and Stark. Will they, or won't they? The outcome of their relationship will never be perfect, but I believe they can reconcile.

Life is a never ending play. We are but the actors with little control. As the script is read, we slowly begin to understand more of the story. Ascendancy is unfolded before us.

/


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

I gently put my peach colored dress into the suitcase. So many colors, fabrics, and textures explode from the case. Already I have two stuffed full. That's _without_ my necessities. Well, as they say, when in Rome…

Bucky and Steve are boxing downstairs. I told Bucky I would pack for him. As much as possible he needs to train with Steve. Although Wanda will be able to protect us, it wouldn't hurt to have a buff and fully functioning super soldier around to help. Not to mention the therapy and closure it will bring for Bucky.

I think back to the first time they fought. Bucky had left, angry with his disability. Now, I saw them laughing as they headed to the gym. Bucky was saying he was losing his abs. Steve said he _was_ getting a little chunky.

One of the things I love about doing mundane things, is the opportunity to think. Now, all my thoughts are absorbed in Bucky. I try to stop, think of other important things, but my mind just goes back to him one way or another. Even when we are apart, our synapses fire and connect, sending shocks to remind us that the other is still there and in love.

I seem to float around the room. Air is just another floor, one that touches my lover as well, caresses his face when I cannot.

I zip my suitcase close. Now for Bucky's.

It seems silly, but seeing as I'm wearing socks, I take the opportunity to 'ice skate' across the floor. Scott is coming out of his room near Bucky's. He stares at me wide eyed. Then suddenly he does a little tap dance past me, and slides out of the hallway, smile plastered loosely on his jolly face.

 _Gosh, I'm going to miss him._

It shoots me in the heart. I hadn't realized it until now. What will my future be? If Bucky and I remain a couple, once we come back from our Europe tour, will I live here? Will I help the Avengers?

It's possible I'll forever live with Scott. If we forever live here, on this compound. But Steve doesn't seem to think so. I can smell the anxiety in the air: anxiety to go and help. To fight for their love ones and return home to them, victorious.

I slip into Bucky's room. His suitcase sits open at the end of his bed. A lone blue shirt lays in it, hastily folded.

Soon I'm snuggling colors next to each other again. Bucky only needs one suitcase for clothes though, so I move on to necessities. The daurer slips out of the dresser. Papers fly around me, souring like airplanes.

Surprised, I lean down and pick one up. From the back I can see pencil scribbles. When I flip it around, a gasp fills my cheeks.

It's me. Drawn in gentle pencil flutters across the whole page, there I sit in my white leather chair. Gazing out of a window as it pours down rain outside. A solemn look is portrayed on my face.

My heart bobbles around in my chest, butterflies roll in my stomach. He drew me. And not a stick figure either, an amazing pencil sketch. I fly to the ground and gather up all the ones that fell. There are dozens more.

Ones of me eating, talking to him in my chair, laying in my bed listening to music, watching a movie and laughing, sitting at a table and quietly grinning. Small moments trickled into lines of memory which were woven across the page.

 _When did he do all of these…._

I dig through the drawer, taking the drawings, and bringing them into a plain of introspection before me; they become movies, which becon thoughts, which beckon emotions. Two warm hands wrap around my waist.

Warm breath, then a kiss is pressed upon my face gently. I feel Bucky's soft hair tickle my cheek.

"You found my drawings."

Turning around to face him, my arms wrapping around his neck, I say, "How, and when, did you draw them. They are… _amazing,"_ I breathe.

Bucky chuckles. A small grin creeps onto his face, and his eyes sparkle when he looks at me. My heart is practically jumping out of my chest.

"Ever since I met you. It was hard, with my arm missing, but you are worth it. I guess I just could resist capturing," Bucky's smile draws near to my astounded lips, "Your light."

His lips enfold mine, and his kiss is soft, barely nipping at the bud of lust. My hands move through his hair, wishing I could absorb myself into him. Wanting to be closer, to have him consume the being he has already consumed the soul of; the pulse to be closer.

We just stand, in our own space, separating our past from the present. Polarizing.

/

It lays there. Cold, hard. The phone practically mocks his facade.

Everyone thinks of Steve that way. They know he cares, but he is so rigid. It's like the ice from those years wound it's way to his heart to survive there, peircing through until it showed in Steve's very nature. But that's untrue.

Steve was ripped into a future that brought back his nightmares. The Tesseract was teased with by the government, used to make weapons, undoing what Cap risked his life to stop.

Ultron came. Steve was mocked and haunted once again. He could just never escape that horrid war. PTSD was a terror in itself. His body rejected it, saying he must be strong.

But then the war was between the people he cared about the most. The walls of his heart were ripped down, shredded to pieces. Regret had been shrouding him. Steve had to stay strong for Bucky. Now, one of the final pieces of the puzzle is fitting in. Stark.

This reconciliation will be the foundation for healing. Steve has always been a man of the people. And he sees his family healing. The war will always be a part of him. There is no denying that. But he has to let go of constantly fighting it, at all and alone.

Steve picks up the phone, his forehead wrinkling with the age his soul is. Each number is like preparing for a battle: typed in slow, then all of a sudden facing the feared. Stark picks up instantaneously.

"Yep."

"Stark," Steve says quietly into the phone.

A gasp, a fall, and a scrambling. "Steve?" Tony whispers loudly in disbelief.

"Yeah, it's me Tony."

"What… Why are you calling?"

Steve sighs. "I felt that my letter didn't explain everything.

"I just want to say: I'm sorry," Steve says softly.

Tony doesn't say anything. Steve hopes it's because he was touched.

"I broke apart the family, I made so many mistakes. I bring the war with me Tony, and it was inevitable. It's impossible to fix those things though, and I still don't agree on the Accords. But," Steve pauses. He was rushing, trying to press all of his regret out at once. "What I'm trying to say is, I'm sorry. I'll say it a hundred times, but I don't blame you if you don't believe it."

Steve waits, staring for an answer; scavenging like a wolve for the forgiveness he needs. He won't find it all in Stark, but it's a beginning.

"I forgive you." It's one of those rare moments when Tony's words aren't smothered with sarcasm. One of the first words he has spoken to Steve in months is that which he has wanted to say from the beginning. A flood is released in Tony's brain.

"You weren't the only one who made mistakes," He mumbles. "The only thing I ever did for the Avengers was give my money, and screw with their lives. I think we're even."

"No. Tony, I don't think anyone has ever made this clear to you: We love you."

Stark is quiet on the other end, absorbing the words, softly lubricating his heart.

"You're not just some billionaire without a heart. Us- Wanda, Clint, Scott, Sam- know what you have done for us. You may have made your mistakes, but that does not overshadow your worth to us."

"Um, well," Stark says sarcastically. But Steve can hear the emotion flooding his voice. "Ross has been loading me up with work. And I haven't seen anybody helping me, so let them know they're slacking."

Steve chuckles and Stark does a little, deep, fluttery laugh. A recovery from the love pressed upon him so violently.

"You know I'd like you to come here. I just don't know if it's possible."

"No, yeah, of course not, you have to keep your butts in check. I understand that. Vision has been giving me one h*ll of a time."

"There may be _one_ solution, although." Steve slowly has a grin implanting itself upon his face. "Call us back in an hour."

"Sure, because it's not like I have a million papers to fill out and calls to make."

They both know that in this moment, things will get better. The seed has been planted; ascendancy and reconciliation grow nearer by the second.

/

Clint bursts into hysterical laughter. "You…" He gasps, tears welling in his eyes, "Were so excited," That kind of uncontrollable joy when you absolutely cannot tell a story makes the deconstruction of Clint's story, "That you gasped, burned your finger, then knocked your head on the table, and passed out."

Scott crosses his arms indignantly.

Wanda is giggling right along with Clint. "Don't forget how when he got into his suit he was so excited about meeting Steve, he tripped and fell on his face."

"I could never forget that." Clint says, a deep and serious look masking his face. Until, that is, he spurts out laughing again.

"Ha. Ha. Very funny you guys. Well, you know, the last trip I had before that was my long car ride to the prison. Passing out and tripping wasn't half as bad," Scott says indignantly. He pauses for a moment, eyebrows frowning. He sighs then says, "I am a mess."

Everyone in the room raises their beers to that. I raise my sweet tea. Because I am a wimp, and choked when I first tried alcohol. Like a true Southern, sweet tea is better any day.

Nat and Sam surprisingly devised this impromptu going away party. Everyone seems in high spirits. I honestly couldn't think of a better way to leave. I can feel Bucky's chest underneath me vibrate with mirth.

Pizza lies on the rec room table, the TV has football on, and even the king T'Challa paid us a humble visit. He and Steve talked for a bit, then pulled Natasha into the conspiracy. I could tell whatever the news, it was good. T'Challa also gave Steve some kind of device.

It feels so nice to know that it's ok for things to be _good._ Sometimes you can't believe in it. The fact of joy is that it must be true. If even a smidge of doubt cloges, then disparity will soon devour. But this just feels _right._

Peace has waited a long time to permeate these walls. The ever oh so white walls have waited a long time to be a reflection of cleanliness. They will never reach that fully; humans will always sin on earth. Our doubts and past mistakes may choose to haunt us at times. Only to make us stronger, though. We will come through it.

"I know this, uh, might be uncomfortable for some of you," Says Steve, opening his arms slightly and leaning forward. The laughter and chatting spread about the room halts. "But this is something that I believe we all need to do."

Everyone looks around. Sam questions, dark eyebrows raised, "What it is Steve?"

Steve pulls a sleek piece of metal from his pocket. It is bigger than the phone, and has more buttons. He slowly types in a series of numbers into the device. A white square of light shines through a dark glass hole on the metal.

Dial noises. A man's face transcends upon the screen. Stark. Behind him sits Vision and Rhodey. I feel Bucky tense.

"I believe it's working," Vision says, very helpfully.

A thrill runs through me. Steve set this up. That means he talked with Stark. This could be gargantuan.

"Yes, Red, we got that," Tony says, looking back at him. They form a triangle on either side of Stark. Vision looks robotic (This is the first time I have seen him, and good grief, he does remind me of red skull a bit. Steve was right.) and Rhodey looks rigid. Grim and worried looks crease their faces.

I can see Stark looking at each of his family members at a time. First Wanda, then Clint, next Scott, Sam, Bucky, and me. All on our side of translation look severe. This is the final battle in the war they have all been fighting. The climax has been reached in the Avengers family. Stark and gang may not be here, but their eyes and souls are. They are searching, searching for an ounce of familiarity or love.

"Um, so," Stark begins, ever so gracefully. "We just wanted to say hi. Hope your life has been going well, thought we would give this new thing called _skype_ a try. Pretty cool, huh Steve?" Tony is bubbling over with sarcasm. Well, some things never change.

"Tony," Rhodey says behind him. He slowly limps closer to the screen and that's when I see the metal on his leg. Oh, right. "What he means to say is: We wish we could be there to say this, but we have to seem complacent with the government."

"Yes, he is right. They barely trust us now," Vision adds. I have noticed that his eyes have almost never wandered past Wanda. "Except, they seem to find my statistics quite interesting, which is rather a nice change."

"Yes, well at least someone does," Stark says.

Nobody on our side has spoken. It seems to hit Tony at that moment. The silence, with his sarcasm and fake cheer inside it, seems to now be echoing loudly. He sighs, and rubs his forehead.

He looks at Wanda. She has tears in her eyes. Whether it's from missing them, or anger, I have yet to determine. "I know what I did was absolute sh*t. When I locked you up, I swear, it was only for your protection. But I realize that you're not a kid, Wanda. You have seen more than anybody, at any age, deserves too. And then the prison… Well, you know how hard sorrys are for me, but I'll say it anyway. I'm sorry."

Stark looks at Sam. "I honestly don't know what I did to you man, but whatever it was, I know I was a jerk. I'm sorry." I see Sam's frown soften. He nods gently. It's enough.

Scott is next on his line- up. "Same for you, Scott. I know you got pulled into this because of me. I'm sorry."

"No worries man. I got to meet the frikin Avengers because of this!" Scott says, slapping his friends backs.

Stark loosens up a bit. Forgiveness seems to be peaking through the mountains like sunlight.

"Clint."

Clint straightens. He seems indignant to whatever Stark wants to say, but I see his expressions shifting like sand.

"When I created Ultron, you brought all of us to your _home._ As much as I am still mad about you not telling us about your family, I realized something. That's what I wanted. You showed us a house, full of people who loved, and who were safe. You inspired us to restart the Avengers. You didn't deserve to be ripped from your family like we all were. I'm sorry."

Clint sniffs, and wipes his eyes a bit. Everyone lets out a little chuckle. I can see Steve's small grin through all of this peeking out even more. Emotions bubble in everyone's eyes, threatening to pop with the slightest trigger.

Tony's voice cracks. "Bucky."

I look up. Bucky's mouth stays like a line inscribed in stone. But his eyes made of waves and sand.

"All that you did- all- was not your fault. I was a total a*s to you. And I can't _begin_ to imagine what it would have been like to kill all those people. Especially-" Stark pauses, as if trying to catch his breath. He hastily takes a sip from the glass of water in front of him. A cough, and then, "My parents."

Nobody has to stay in the room. They could leave, never come back. Stark could hardly blame them. But when the war has been long, when it has torn your family, all you want to do is come back home.

I have no part in this, yet I can't leave. Not just because Bucky is gripping my hand like a lifesaver. Because I can't miss the moment I have been waiting for. I float like a ghost, always on the interim. Nobody notices me.

Everyone is captivated.

Tony speaks to everyone. "I've been here working for Ross, trying to get through the _gosh dang awful-_ you're welcome Steve- paperwork. And I've realized that you were right. We can't save the world here doing desk jobs." Tony raises his eyebrows, and points his finger indignantly. "We also can't always work against the government. I feel, and you know it is unusual for me to act all mushy, like all this happened for a reason."

Vision pops in once again. "Technically, I don't believe that things _can-"_

" _Shut up,"_ Tony says.

"Well, I just-"

" _Anyway,"_ He turns back in annoyance. "I want to say one final thing: I, um, love you guys. And I want you to know, that while I'm not there, I'm right here, working for you. Whenever something happens, I'm ready to suit back up again, because dear _heaven above,_ I am done with this office job. Is this how normal people always live? Gosh, it's dreadful."

"We miss you guys. Stay safe," Rhodey says.

"Yes, stay healthy." Vision looks at Wanda, and smiles ever so slightly.

"Tony," Wanda stands up.

He was about to turn his side of the device off, but he turns back.

"We love you too. Thank you."

She fumbles with her hands, as if trying to clasp an imaginary palm.

"Thank you," Bucky adds softly, too. I can see Steve's eyes begin to water more dramatically.

We all stand up one by one. Each repeating that same phrase: _Thank you._ The light is fading in the background, colors coming in between us, shining behind us towards Tony, Rhodey, and Vision. The light is rising at the compound. Ascendancy over our situations, our loves, our fears, is slowly climbing.

To be a part of healing, to be part of the clot that scabs over the wounds of time, is one of the most beautiful things. And to find love in the midst of that? It just goes to show that something grander is out there. But while that is true, sometimes that grandeur can be condensed and shown in the smallest compound, in a small place in Africa, where love has won over hatred and anger.

/


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

"Hey, it's ok," I say to Bucky. I rub his shoulder gently.

He nods his head, clenching his jaw. Although I can tell he's uneasy, it's kinda hot.

I look over at Wanda in the row next to us. Thankfully, T'Challa got us first class tickets, and all three of us don't have to sit too far apart. Bucky and I got the window seat. Wanda is reading a magazine, often shifting her eyes around the plane, the hood of her baseball cap making her look dubious. I told her there was no need for a hat (apparently the spell is making her a blond), but she wanted it anyway.

We are currently over England on our way to Spain. The countryside green expands and folds beneath us. It becomes color blocking.

I breath deeply. Apparently I am the calm one on this journey. Wanda is jumpy, Bucky is nervous. Plenty could go wrong. But I trust them. I will coerce them into the same credence.

I'm trying to get them excited for the fun things in Europe. First off is Barcelona, Spain. We are going to be staying in a small hotel right on the sea. I've always wanted to explore Europe, and now's my chance. And I get to have two of my best friends with me.

I flip through the pamphlet on Barcelona a third time. The words flow like a river, fluctuating like Bucky's face. Wanda remains rigid.

Both of them are caught within themselves. Wanda is fully capable. Bucky has no need to be afraid. Nobody can hurt them; nobody knows who they are. They wear layers upon layers of masks, and put all the pressure on themselves to protect and enclose. No human on earth is capable of that; some things are up providence.

I close my eyes, because I know it makes no difference.

/

"Ok, Ok, that's highly inaccurate. You could never legitimately kill someone with a pen. Plastic isn't that strong."

"Um, excuse me, Matt Damon is capable of anything. If he can save China, he can stab someone with a pen."

Wanda stays quite as Bucky and I fight over the logistics of The Bourne Identity movie we had watched on the plane. I honestly don't know why I picked it, I knew this was coming.

"Looks don't always work, ok, I know." Bucky chuckles, and smiles at me. I grab his hand, shifting my bag on my shoulder.

"Here, let me carry that," Bucky says.

Such a gentleman. I think I'll keep him.

We go through baggage claim, and then out into the fresh, sea sprinkled air. The wind whips my hair. I can see the buildings of the city are softly lit, as if the light natural emits through the walls. Wanda is once again scanning our surrounding restlessly.

The city is calm, yet you can feel the shivers of energy. I see tan couples walk along the sidewalk next to the sea, as we ride by sluggishly in our cab. I leave the window open, despite the driver's annoyance. This is an opportunity I will not miss.

When we reach the hotel, Bucky carries our bags to the door, but a bellboy quickly stops him.

"Aquí, señor, déjame llevar tus maletas."

"Gracias," Bucky says back.

As we walk in, I whisper quietly, "You know what he said?"

"Yeah, didn't you?"

"I almost failed high school Spanish, so no."

"You have a Ph.D!" Bucky spouts indignantly.

"Doesn't mean I know Spanish." I snort.

Orange and neutral color carpets cover the lobby, which has a small, but beautiful golden chanadler in the middle. The walls are terra cotta, and vintage wood composes the tables and check-in desk. Modern, but rustic decor fills the room. The place preaches comfort, but cleanliness; rustic, but modern.

Bucky does the talking with the desk clerk, while Wanda and I go to the back of the lobby, where large, seamless windows cover the wall. It reminds me of the compound, except here I see the Atlantic Ocean instead of jungle.

Wanda gasps. The evening stars dance atop the water, the twilight brushes the tips of the waves, which gently paw edge of the hotels stone structure. Straight from where we stand is a drop off into the cool sea. I can't help but stare, as well.

Our room has a view of the ocean. In fact, the veranda leads right over it, so we are standing over the darkness of the ocean; floating like a cloud over the depths of depravity. As soon as Wanda and I enter our room, she goes straight for the balcony. The white curtains flutter behind her, and she disappears into the night.

I turn back to Bucky. He has remained passive. The beauty hasn't passed over him, I'm sure. But I can see his deep eyes slowly dying. We are getting close to his nightmare.

"You ok?"

Bucky shakes his head, still watching where Wanda disappeared.

"Yeah, I'm… I'm just going to put my bags away."

He, too, soon disappears into his room next door.

The plan is for us to go out tomorrow night to visit the spiritual grave of his victim. We could do it tonight, but the ten hour flight was depleting. After ordering room service, we tuck away in our rooms, closing up our hearts; trying to ready for the tears tomorrow will bring.

/

My newly bought white dress flows in the wind. I feel so touristy. I have flip flops, a hat, large sunglasses, and one of those crepe dresses, and feel like Rachel McAdams in "Midnight in Paris". Although, this is Spain, but same idea.

I forced Bucky and Wanda out of the hotel. Honestly, if I hadn't, they would have just mopped around there all day. Nope. Not with me. I'm here to explore, because I'm sure as heck not getting another fully paid vacation around Europe.

I may be here for Bucky, but hey, I'm not a bad therapist for enjoying the perks, right?

 _La Sagrada Familia_ looms ahead of us. Flowers bloom around the church, making the faint colors that seem to seep forth from the walls more vibrant. Swirls, patterns, triangle windows, and dozens of spikes, which shoot up into the sky as if guarding from attack, are laid atop _La Sagrada Familia._

The sky is vibrant, bluer than the ocean, swimming with clouds. Wanda, Bucky, and I simply stand where our taxi dropped us off. It's huge. _Huge_. I have never seen anything like it, and I doubt they have, too. Bucky may have passed it by, but the blur of blood didn't allow him to soak in any beauty.

The church is rather quiet, with only a few people there, surprisingly. We pay, then go explore.

The inside is like a bee's catacomb; its hive. There are holes and colors everywhere. The details are exquisite. The stain glass paints enamel stories across the walls, telling the History of the church. The ceilings extend higher than I could guess.

We are eclipsed in the details, pinpointed by colors and angles. Being so overwhelmed, we float through the church, and Bucky and I soon find ourselves in the main chapel.

I read the pamphlet in my hand, the other one encapsulated by Bucky's. He gazes at the church calmly, but I can see the fascination within his deep eyes; curiosity churning the waters of his blue.

"Tribunes are built up high into the ceiling of tree like columns," I read.

"Holding up to 1300 adult, and 300 children, chorus members, it sounds as if the heavens above actually opened, and the angels are playing their harps."

"I was in choir once," I say, reminiscing on old days. Bucky looks at me. "I would _never_ go up there though, I would have a heart attack."

"You sing?" Bucky asks astoundedly. His eye are wide.

"Well, yeah, but I-"

"You have too sing for me. Right now." Bucky's voice is playful, but commanding.

"Ah, no. Absolutely not." I flush extremely. I may love to sing, but I'm not prepared for a flash mob.

"Right here. There are hardly any people around. For me?" He smiles seductively, then winks.

Bucky gets close, and whispers, "Please?". His warm breath smells like fruit. It feels like a scene out of Twilight. I really don't want too, but my heart flutters from both nerves, and Bucky's closeness.

There is really no reason not to, though. My years of boutrous singing with friends has taught me not to be ashamed. But in a church, and popular tourist spot? That seems pushing it. I love to make Bucky happy, though, and I know what's coming tonight. This may be the last time I can make him joyful for a long time.

"What do I sing?" I whisper, as if getting ready to pull off a heist.

What are we stealing? The church's sacredness, of course.

"One of the songs you gave me to listen to." Bucky's face is eager now, his smile admiring and animated. I look around for Wanda, a last resort to save me, but she has wandered. We pushed her out by our closeness.

My soul sinks, but Bucky encourages me to search my mind for that playlist, pulling from amongst songs that hold tears, meaning, beyond what I could portray. I grasp the words, find the ones that drift through my mind when things are quiet.

Slowly, the melody lifts from my throat. The notes drift to the ceiling, where they hang, then drip back down upon us again. My face burns in the beginning, but soon the gentle rhythm soothes me, the stage fright wears off like it always does.

" _I found love where it_

 _wasn't supposed to be,_

 _Right in front of me,_

 _Talk some sense to me"_

A few of the tourist stop, and give me odd glances. But Bucky's adoring face keeps my voice non-faltering. His eyes swell, flowing like the tide, rushing in emotion.

When I finish, a silence presses around us, pressing us closer to each other. Bucky smiles widely, and clasps his lips onto mine, his eyes bright. The happiness confounds me, and the kiss surprises. I laugh.

He grabs my head strongly, but gently. We fold into a hug.

"I didn't know I was courting a singer," Bucky says, teasingly.

"Ha, ha. Well, I'm not doing something like this again, so don't get used to it," I say, relaxing back into his arms, looking at his eyes. In reality, if he wanted me too, I would.

I grab Bucky's hand, and we walk through more of the church. The windows' colors brush over us, absorbing through the bubble of love and joy we are within, tinting us red.

Folding chairs are set up for an upcoming event, but are not blocked off. Wanda is curling in one, looking at the golden cross at the end of the church. Her hands are clasped tightly, as if debating prayer.

This trip has only just begun, and we have already left her.

A look must crease my eyes, for when Bucky catches it, he grabs it, and immediately nods in understanding. I walk to the chairs, and sit in the one next to hers. Wanda keeps her eyes strained towards the cross.

That's when I notice the cross necklace clutched tightly in her hands.

"It was my mother's," Wanda says, the normality of her voice surprising me.

"She believed." Wanda nods towards the cross.

"And you?" I ask.

Her eyes remain fixated. "I grew up saying my prayers every night, on the floor of our small apartment. Then the roof fell in. And so did my faith."

I'm quiet. I leave her space to fill out my questions.

Finally, she does. "I was angry. _We_ were angry." I know who Wanda is speaking of immediately: her brother.

"From that anger, and grief… and fear, I got my powers. And from them, I got the same fear from others."

Her Sokovian accent is thick and heavy, layered with emotions, weaved with pain. Red dances around her fingers. I glance around quickly, but nobody is watching.

"I bought that building down, as Stark did to my family."

"Wanda," I begin.

"You didn't let me finish." Now, she looks at me. Wanda's eyes are peeling off catechism, flaking dusty bitterness. Power, force, invades her voice. "I have accepted it. I know it wasn't all me. But I feel as if my powers have been haunting me. From my family's death, to gaining powers, to killing. They were always leading me to them. How do I control my powers, when… I'm afraid they control me?"

"You can't." I don't hesitant for a second.

Wanda seems rather taken aback by this statement, as if she expected some reassuring sermon.

"You can't control a single thing in life. Everything is beyond our control. I have done things I'm not proud of, said things I wish I hadn't, hurt people. We all have an innate sense of right and wrong, and you have to trust that it will guide you to the right things."

"How could I trust it when I have killed so many people?"

"But you have saved so many more."

Wanda is quiet. She looks down at her hands.

I want to reach her, to stretch my arms and embrace her hurts, hurl them away from her.

"Was my mother right? Does God truly lead us?" Wanda whispers softly.

"Thats for you to decide, dear." No longer able to constrain myself, I reach out and wrap my arms around her in a large hug. "You will save people, Wanda. I trust you. Don't feel bad that you can't trust yourself yet. That will come in time. I love you, and I believe you will protect us."

"What if I hurt you?" She whispers.

"Then that was the plan for my life."

I feel small droplets on my arms. They slide down like raindrops on a car window, more drops catching each other, then sliding down together. That's what Wanda and I will do: grasp onto each other, hold the other up until we splash, away from all the pain.

/

The breeze is fierce. It blows my hair, whips it around my face, and claws at me. I wrap my light sweater as close to me as I can; I force it to be a hug.

We slowly climb the fire escape. The store it sleeps on top of, dimly lit, is about to be closed. Bucky is foremost, guiding the way. No doubt he had to pursue a hundred horrible memories to find the way to this one. He had to find the store, the staircase, where he murdered a human. I shudder.

Finally, the ocean unfolds before our view. The roof is completely flat, the edge only a few feet up. We are near the end of the city, where we can see a dull light off in the distance, a ship moving through the night.

I can imagine Bucky dunking down, having to crawl to not be seen; crawling like the dog Hydra made him.

"Here is where I put the rifle," Bucky says quietly, pointing to the ledge of the roof, right at the corner. I peer over the side, and directly in my line of site is a shabby looking building. A little worn down, but it's still beautiful like the rest of Spain.

Now that we are here, I turn back to Wanda. She holds out the white roses. I hand them right to Bucky, who takes them lightly in his hands. For a moment, I am shocked to see two hands on Bucky, then I remember he put on Stark's arm. A one armed man would have called unnecessary attention.

There are no words for us to say. What could you say when you killed someone by your hands; killed them with a dark patch placed inside of you. But Bucky speaks.

 _How?_ Is the only thought that run rampant within my head.

"I killed someone here. The monster Hydra made out of me, destroyed a life."

I feel the gasp inside. I don't want to be audible, so I don't breath.

"I don't know if he had a family. They usually did," Bucky mumbles, his voice crumbling. "But he came here to stop something… I can't remember what." Bucky closes his eyes, searching for the memories. But I can see it hurts. He quickly opens them. "Well, he came here to stop something evil. I can honor him for that. For the sacrifice he made."

Tears well up in my eyes. I see the pain, but the braveness Bucky posses', and will some into me. I inhale, trying to focus on the wind, on the ocean. Out of the corner of my eye I see Bucky pull apart the rose, letting it's petals drip down to where the man was murdered, down to the entryway of the opposite building. They melt onto the ground, washing away the blood, the impurities that stained that road.

I look down, absorbed in the petals, my thoughts drifting like them. Suddenly, the door bursts open, and a scantily dressed women stumbles out. She looks around, confused, anxious… Desperate most of all, until an arm reaches out and grabs her. The door slams shut.

Bucky is staring intensly at the little scene. Wanda seems captivated too, and I can see her curious eyes shining with questions.

Bucky gasps. Then, lightning quick, he runs across the roof, and jumps down the fire escape. While this shocks me, I realize how powerful he is in that moment. So fast. So strong. His muscles pound the ground, ready to tear apart anything.

"What are you doing?" Wanda yells, running after him. I can see the moment she hesitates, almost using her powers to fly down. But she is in disguise.

I feel myself propelling down the steps, practically hopping. Bucky races across the street, and rams his shoulder into the door. Inside, all I can see his blackness. Heaving, I make it too the door a little after Wanda.

It smells weird. Too sweet— like someone is covering up stench. I'm about to go in, but Wanda steps in front of me. "Let me go first."

I let her. We don't see Bucky. The place looks like a hotel. There are doors lining a single dark hallway, and what seems like a larger, dimly lit room past a set of stairs.

I hear moaning from one of the rooms. Slowly, while Wanda looks around, I push the door open. A women. A man. A tangle of bodies, flashing arms and legs. Heat fills the room. More stench.

The girl gasps. That's when I see: She's a _girl._ No older than sixteen, she lays in the bed with a foreign looking man. He, too, looks surprised.

The pudgy man looks past me, out the door. "I was promised _privacy_!" He screeches.

That when I turn around. There's a yell, then the sound of a scramble. Bucky is back.

Door after door, he slams his foot into them. He breaks the barriers, and shocks and screams come forth from within the boxes.

Bucky looks angry. His face is painted with disgust. Just as swiftly as he came into the building, he leaves. I turn back around.

More girls are crawling out of the rooms, sheets or skimpy outfits wrapped around them. They look shock to see the door open. Through the busted entryways, I can see men shoving clothes upon themselves.

A brothel. That's what this is. A brothel.

Wanda has run into the dim room. I stand there, staring at all the women staring at me. Their eyes are scared, wide with anticipation. They look at me as if I was pointing a gun.

Tears bubble in my eyes. I feel numb, and try to run, or comfort, help, _something._

A girl screams. I turn, and a large man with _policia_ written on the back of his jacket barges in, more men following him. A siren roars in the background.

I can finally move, I'm jolted awake. I see Bucky amidst the officers, trying to explain things. I hear him say calmly, as I walk towards him, pushing myself through tons of cold bodies, "I heard a noise, saw a women come out the door and yell for help. It was locked, but I was able to push it in with my shoulder."

He speaks some of the words in Spanish, some in English, and I garner his general meaning from that. When Bucky spots me, he excuses himself from the police officers.

"We need to leave," He says lowly, grabbing my arm and pulling me away.

"What about Wanda?"

We both look around for her. An ambulance has pulled up, examining girls on gurneys and stretchers. Lights and sirens almost blind me.

"There she is," Bucky says, pointing.

Wanda is coming out of the brothel, walking near some police who are leading two huge men from the building. Both of them have greasy hair and sleazy suits; what you would expect. Their hands are tied, and they have large bruises on their faces.

"Did you do that?" I ask. But Bucky is waving to Wanda, who quickly comes over. They pull me away from the scene. Photographers are there, snapping pictures of the scene. A camera flashes in my eyes, and I'm led on blindly by Bucky's arm. We push away, getting away from the sweet.

Finally, after walking quickly for at least two blocks, we stop at a small cafe. Bucky holds open the door for me, but won't look me in the eye. We all sit down inside the warm building with a huff.

I feel numb, overwhelmed by those girls. The fear slapped me, raked it's filthiness, the stuff they must feel everyday, over me. It was all so quick.

"What..." Wanda wanders off. She knows what it is.

Bucky is staring straight ahead. Staring at the wood graining of the circular table. I can see him sorting the memories in his mind, laying them out upon the table until they make sense. Organizing the hurt out of them. Only one other couple sits in the small cafe, painted a light brown orange.

His eyes are swimming. After a deep exhale, Bucky says, "That was the Gullone brothers brothel, one of Hydra's biggest sources of funding."

"What?" Wanda gasps.

"As soon as I saw that girl, I remembered. My mission was to kill Philip Marcellous. He had had a tip from someone that Hydra was running a operative, or business out of Barcelona. He worked for the department of Justice in Spain, although many speculated he had ties to Hydra. I shot him before her could even enter the building."

Bucky is silent. He finally got it off his chest.

"I… I thought Hydra was dismantled?"

"Bucky shakes his head. "For the most part, but lone operatives still function, as long as they are not found out."

I speak slowly, my breath hitching, voice breaking. "Were those girls… forced… taken..." I can't find the right word.

"Most are there by blackmail, or to protect or feed their families. Some by other reasons." He doesn't need to say what they are.

We sit in silence. Bucky gets up, goes to the counter and buys some pastries. But the warm goo, sickly sweet, of the roll only reminds me of the brothel.

But that _place_ is gone. It was grasped with a metal grip, ripped apart by Bucky's memories. Something came out of the hurt. Good: good came out of that man's death.

"Bucky, those girls can live their life now," I breathe.

"With the weight of their past weighing down on them," He mumbles.

I _laugh._ "You saved them! Your memories, that man's death, freed them! Don't you see?" I jump up.

"But what if Marcellous had found them out?" Bucky demands, trying to rationalize.

"Hydra would have sent someone else," Wanda whispers, staring deeply at her roll.

"But they sent you! Someone who was saved, someone who would try to reverse what evil had been done through him."

I grasp Bucky's face in my hands. This was a breakthrough, the one I've been waiting for. I see the tears in his eyes, as I push his face to look up at me. I gently trace his lips with my thumb.

I smile, so wide it hurts. I taste salt in my mouth. I'm crying too.

"What happened to you, saved those girls, and many more. They may have the weight of those memories, like you have yours, but that pain will be used for good. You can save more people, Buck."

I finish, right before Bucky's lips press onto mine with a small explanation of joy, "They will save you."

/


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

The sun slowly begins to cream into the sky. The dye of reds and oranges are smeared, soon becoming one color, but never fully mixed in.

I sip my juice. The wine glass it's in makes me feel so luxurious, although Bucky is the only one drinking wine.

"I've always wanted to go to Paris," I sigh.

Bucky looks over at me, his eyes dazzling. "You'll love it."

We look back at the sun.

"What's your favorite color?" He asks suddenly, his voice searching for something urgently.

"Uh, blue, why?" With the sunrise slowly dominating the waters it seems like such a small question.

Bucky reaches over and takes my hand. His eyes probe mine, trying to push his soul into my skull, invade and touch everything with his scent. "I don't know enough about you, Ella. I feel like I've known you all my life, but I don't even know what your favorite color is."

"You know the important stuff, though."

"Maybe, but I want to know more."

I settle into my seat, feeling a blush rise into my cheeks. I look out over the sun, trying to find a color that must match the shade of my face, as a distraction. "Well, what do you want to know? I love talking about myself, so fire away."

I'm nothing if not honest.

"What's your favorite childhood memory?"

Flashes of vibrant greens fill my mind, a dull red, and fading grey. I sigh. "Our playhouse on a spring day. The neighbors would come, and my sister and I would play with them, pretending to have a restaurant. We would cook 'chicken', tree bark, and 'jam', poisonous to eat red berries mashed up."

"Just my childhood in general was incredible. I was blessed with a great family." I grin over at Bucky. He is one of the only things that make me as happy as the memories of my childhood.

He smiles right back. "Ah, I see. Some of your best memories are with food. Why am I not surprised?"

Bucky winks, his cheeks becoming round when his lips turn into a grin. I immediately want to kiss him, but he's too far away. I climb out of my seat, and go to his, sitting on his lap.

"If they did, then I might not be able to sit in your lap like this."

We both laugh. "I'm glad they don't all involve food then, because it would be terrible to miss this."

Slowly, barely a whisper, his fingers gently trace my mouth. His pupils are dark pits; his lips just barely skim mine. Quickly, we are caught up together. I feel two hands press against my back, but think nothing of it, to consumed in the tender embrace. Until a hard hand is digging into my skin, and it's like i can feel the slow breaking of bone.

"Oh!" I cry out, clutching at my back, and putting one hand over my mouth.

"What, what happened?!" Bucky shouts urgently, much louder than necessary. His hair is ruffled.

"Nothing," I say swiftly. "I think your metal just made a bruise on my back."

"Let me see."

"No, it's fine." And I mean it. It hurt, but Bucky doesn't have as much control over his new arm.

" _Turn around Ella,"_ Bucky demands darkly.

It shocks me, and I unthinkingly twist my torso so that the small area between my shoulder blades is visible.

Bucky's rough, but warm, fingers trace slowly down my spine. "D*mn it," He mutters.

I honestly don't care but Bucky's eyes are soaking with pain. I don't want him to be triggered, especially not by me. Galaxy's of regret lie deep in his brain. I want to form a black hole, and churn that guilt into myself, grabbing particles of hurting space until there are no more. But now I have become the meteor.

"Why did you wear the arm, Bucky?" I whisper. I know saying _I'm fine! I'm not hurt, I promise!_ , will not do the trick.

"I thought… I thought that it…" Bucky can't tear his eyes from my back, where he is tracing his human fingers over the sour bruise that now barely peeking through the membrane of my skin.

My head is now leaning on his chest, my legs thrown behind the chair around his waist, and my back exposed to the sun. The sea breeze drifts by. Comatose creeps into my nose, through my veins to be pumped around my body. But instead of sleep being pumped into my blood, red and bursting and oxygenated cells of love float through.

"I wanted to be normal for you," He whispers.

"Everyone wants be normal, but everyone wants to be different. Bucky," I stand up, pulling him by the hand to the railing of the veranda, "I don't care if you're missing an arm. The same as I don't care if the ocean dried up, or the sun stopped rising, because I know that something better is beneath _all_ of this. Beneath your skin, is someone who has more depth and hardships then so many, but beats themselves up because the couldn't control them."

"The sun can't control it's beauty; how people perceive it. You can't control what I see in you, and that's all I see: beauty," I finish.

I look away, our hands still locked. The ocean simmers, the sun boils within it, and it's beams are thrown around.

My view is suddenly cut off by a warm palm. The sun still seeps through the flesh, turning it ablaze in red. I look up and Bucky's eyebrows are pulled together, his lips near mine.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

The ocean can dry up, the clouds can forever cover the sun. Bucky can stop loving me, and I can stop loving him. Everyone falls out of love, at least for a while. But there is a commitment that all things hold; we can't simply abandon what we were made to do. The sun will rise again. The ocean will keep beating against the shore. Bucky and I will forever fall back into each other's arms, the love that we were made to give, forever being received by the other.

/

Step after step after step. Person after person after person. Hat, flip-flop, camera, flash, laugh.

Life weaves between us. Wanda walks behind me again, Bucky by my side. The concret folds, and refolds again into more steps, until it looks like they are constantly revolving like an escalator. Tourist pass, cut by the metal structure of the Eiffel Tower into tiny fragments of flesh; souls torn by their appearance, and who they really are.

We finally make it to the second landing. Paris is a painting before us, spilled out onto neverending blue. Bucky pushes by all the people, and then there it is. Just a block of concrete. Just a piece of history carved and recarved by feet. Until, a metal memorial was stamped into it.

 _In loving memory of Francis Smith (1980-2005). "When a great man dies, for years the light he leaves behind him, lies on the path of men."_

"Twenty five," Wanda whispers.

Bucky doesn't respond. He looks up to the next landings. That must have been where he... Did it.

White shakes near me, and I realize I've been clenching the flowers in a shaking hand. The ends are brown now. I pass them to Bucky without a word, although he catches my eyes. His face is tender.

It disarms me. I was supposed to be comforting _him._

Bucky gently lays the flowers on the spirit marker. He gently presses a hand onto it, looks around again, then stands. When Bucky turns back, the glass has been flipped; Bucky immediately hugs me, while I stand there shaking. My reflection is clear in his gaze.

We leave. Before I can process anything, I'm seated behind a table, a napkin on my lap, and the scene ever changing before me as the sun sets once more. This time a city encloses us, traps us in the traffic of reality that is dressed like a dream. I look down only when the smell something sweet. Dessert. Dessert already.

I look at Bucky questionably. He is staring right back at me, his eyebrows raised. Suddenly I realize what I'm eating, and the sweet shocks me, twisting my taste buds around. I begin gulfing it down.

Wanda looks up from where she is eating her's delicately, and shares a look with Bucky. I pretend I don't see it.

The waiter comes up, and he asks in French, "Avez-vous terminé vos repas?"

"Oui merci," Bucky responds. I snort under my breath.

Of _course_ he knows French. Then another wave of shakes overcome me and I can't lift my fork. There is a reason why he had to learn this language.

Bucky pulls out my chair for me, and we go down the poignant elevator in silence. I'm almost surprised when a rush of air does not flow out when the door opens; a release of pressure from all the tension.

Bumps raise on my arm, and it's only then that I realize it's cold. Bucky drapes his blazer over me, leaving on his fancy shirt. Wanda looks back, and then she nods at Bucky, who also must have nodded.

"Where is she going?" I ask.

"There's a bookstore near here she wants to look in. She'll be fine."

The pavement is like a puzzle before us. A warm light draws us near a small band playing music. Bucky loops an arm around my waist delicately, and pulls me in with the other couples dancing.

The music chills in the air, and condenses, falling around us. I fold my head onto Bucky's chest. His heart pulses steadily.

"What is it, Ella?" Bucky asks softly.

I sigh into his chest. This is so ridiculous. "I'm sorry, it's-"

"Don't apologize. You don't need to do that for me."

I look up. "I just feel like there is more we need to do, more we can give." Bucky understands who I'm talking about. _Francis Smith._ "And.. I mean this is just an awful thought…"

"Just say it," Bucky says softly into my ear. My stomach hovers, dissolving into butterflies whose flaps dance and tickle like feathers.

"I feel like I'm being selfish," My breath hushes the music, it boils, evaporating again so that I can't hear it. "Like, I'm taking all your energy and time, your… your… Healing that should come from this! You didn't look sad up there, and I'm not saying you should, but," My voice is becoming rushed, the music scatterers more. Bits of it must have scattered to the plaza at this point.

"You think I'm not healing the right way?" It's not an accusation. Just a question.

"I've never been in love with the patient before," I say awkwardly.

We both chuckle.

"I'm glad," Bucky adds, still smiling.

"Love from the family, from victims, from bullies, whatever the case, is really instrumental in someone's healing. And it's becoming more real now, this relationship," I suck in a breath, "And I'm not sure if that's what is best for you. I don't want to be a… a distraction."

"Ella, I don't have any real family left. Steve is the closest thing I got. Besides you." He smiles.

"I don't really think love is a distraction," Bucky says thoughtfully, looking past me to the other couples. "I think it's getting rid of my demons. I think _you_ are helping with that. Obviously, not all of it, but more than I could ever thank you for."

Slowly, we stop dancing and stand there. The music starts falling again, until it's beating down in a crescendo inside my ears. Bucky leans down and suddenly all I can hear is my heart bouncing around the song; the song low and mellow, my heart on fire with sporadic energy. His lips melt onto mine.

Then suddenly we are dancing again, but I can't feel my feet moving. The nighttime is soft around us. Bucky is the only thing I can see, though. The only thing I ever want to see. The couples, the Eiffel Tower, not anything in the world can compare to this soul that moves next to mine.

/

"This one looks interesting. I can imagine. I can't read French."

Wanda laughs and reaches out to take the book from my hands.

"It's Shakespeare: Romeo and Juliet."

I see the longing look in her eyes. I look around the small and cozy book store and see nobody near us. Bucky went back to the hotel to go to bed. He has to wake up early so he can meet Tadike, who is dropping off more money: carrying a large amount would be too suspicious for us, and we can't use cards.

"Do you think you have found your Romeo?" I ask, casually scanning the bookshelves, even though I have no idea what I'm looking at.

Wanda looks disconcerted for a moment, but hastily recovers and laughs softly, "Well, when you put it that way…"

"I regretted my phrasing as soon as it left I mouth," I say dryly. "But still! Did nobody at the compound catch your eye?" I wink at her.

"Uh, not really…" Wanda drifts off. Her words are absorbed by the books. Candle's are sprinkled around the shop. The shadows cut her face into planes, each flashing a different, specific emotion that I can't piece into a whole.

"Not really?"

"Well," She sighs sharply, hopelessly giving up her privacy to me, "I don't know how I feel." Her heavy Sokovian accent marks the words strangely, but I sense frustration.

"Steve is such a kind man to me, but I don't know if it is love, or just brotherly affection. I think of him as a brother… Not that anyone could replace Pietro, but Steve does a good job anyway." Wanda smiles faintly, her straight teeth peeking white in the low light.

"Ah, I thought it may be true."

"You did?"

"Well, I mean, y'all seemed pretty close, and Steve's a great guy-"

"Yes, he is!" She cuts me off. "But like I said, my emotions have been so disoriented that I just don't know. I don't feel I need to rush though."

"The perfect guy will come one day," I agree.

"My Bucky will come one day," She jokes, her smile consuming more of her face.

I laugh, but then something catches my eye. A bright flash of light, so quick, but blinding. Wanda is back to browsing the romance section. But my mind stutters.

A camera flash. A camera. Taking pictures. Of us.

"I, um, I need to check something," I say to Wanda, running into the corner of the a bookshelf as I fumble to the door.

"Is everything alright?" Wanda asks, eyebrows creased in concern.

"Yeah, yeah," I casually run into the door with a loud thud, even loud enough for the owner to look up annoyed from his seat, "I'm fine, just need some air. I think the pasta messed with my stomach."

The ethereal night engulfs me, and I immediately look around frantically. Nobody is in sight. There is a small alley to the side of the shop, completely dark. The only light comes from a lamppost about a hundred feet away.

I walk into the alley, but I don't see anyone. A dumpster with cardboard boxes laying on their side are the only inhabitants of the space. Through the light night, I see a street on the other side.

Abruptly, my wrists are grasped tightly, and pinned against the brick wall of the store. A scream frantically tries to run out of my mouth, but is stopped by the stomp of a hand over my lips. A man with pale blue eyes looks over me crazily, ravishing my body, while his gloved and grimy hands pin me down. Red hair peeks from under his black, hole filled hat.

"Ah, what are you doing out here so late at night, girly?" His accent is Irish.

My heart is pounding, and I can't breath. But I weeze a scream as hard as I can. It only comes out through it's muffler as pant, though. I'm trapped. I'm _trapped_.

The man puts my wrists into one hand, and I try to push away so hard I almost disjoint my shoulders. He grabs me back, and slams me hard. A whimper escapes my lips that are briefly left untouched.

"Scream and you will regret it," He says harshly.

With a hand holding me down, his body crushing me against the wall, the other hand slowly trailed up my thigh, around my hips.

 _BUCKY!_ My mind screeches. But my lips won't move. They are paralysed like the rest of my body. _HELP ME!_

As both of our breaths begin running faster for very different reasons, a red wisp flows around the man's head. We both stare at it, mesmerized, until it flows down to his hand, which was curled around my pants' waist.

The man's hand is jerked into the air, and his body flows with it.

"AY, HELP ME!" His eyes are like large bowls of punch: red and milky with terror.

Wanda's arms contort and twist. The man shoots all the way across the alley, cradled in flowing red. The other street lights up with a thud, a white light flashes, and before I have time to register anything else, I being pulled away from the scene full of the nightmare colors of night.

/


End file.
